Stoneflower
by notsilver
Summary: When Thorin arrives for a long-overdue visit, it jolts Bilbo and Frodo out of their comfortable routine. Frodo longs for adventure, while Bilbo remains haunted by memories of the past and hesitates to take his new heir on a dangerous journey. But when surprising news arrives from Erebor, Bilbo is forced to admit that adventure might not be finished with him just yet. AU
1. A Guest Arrives

**A/N: ****This is an AU from the end of the Hobbit, in which Thorin survived the Battle of Five Armies and has been ruling in Erebor for almost fifty years. I don't want to tell you right off the bat everything else that is AU, but most of it will be clear within a couple of chapters. This is my attempt to write a Character Death Fix that feels emotionally believable, but also to explore the consequences of that as time moves forward. I don't know exactly how long a time period I'm going to cover in this, but it could potentially go up until the start of Lord of the Rings.**

**In general, I'm sticking as close to canon as I can, ****with some combination of movieverse and bookverse and the necessary fudging of timelines that entails. ****I've kept Frodo's year of birth and the age at which he was adopted consistent with Tolkien's timeline (at 21, I imagine him to be about the equivalent of a 12 or 13 year old human, almost but not quite a teenager), but will be making some of the other young hobbits closer in age to him. Any other major timeline adjustments I'll try to mention as I go along. **

**Anyway, enough blathering from me. Here we go!**

* * *

Brandy Hall was the only home Frodo Baggins could remember. He and his parents had lived near Hobbiton when he was a very young hobbit, but even then they had spent a great deal of time visiting with his mother's family. Indeed, most of his earliest memories involved adventures with assorted Brandybuck cousins. His parents, he could hardly recall, and growing up surrounded by such a crowd of relations, he had not exactly felt alone. He had been cheerfully assimilated into a mob of young Brandybucks, and Brandybucks-by-marriage, and had been brought up with a great deal of indulgence and very little oversight, with no particular family taking responsibility for his care.

From time to time, there was talk of sending him to live with a Baggins cousin, or perhaps some other more distant relation, but the Hobbiton folk were generally a bit wary of Frodo. Generosity towards orphans was all well and good, but one had to be cautious around a hobbit who had managed to lose not one but both of his parents before the age of ten. Besides, the lad had a reputation as a bit of a troublemaker. And he hadn't any money of his own. Whoever took responsibility for him would have to foot the bill for his upkeep. Much better for him to stay in Buckland, even if they were a bit queer across the river.

Shortly before his twenty-first birthday, however, he was sent for by his uncle, old Rorimac Brandybuck. This wasn't in and of itself anything unusual. Several times a year, especially around Frodo's birthday, or the anniversary of his parents' death, Uncle Rory would suddenly remember his nephew's existence. Peering over the rim of a glass of wine, he would subject him to a round of questioning about his behavior, education, and general state of cleanliness without stopping to listen to the answers. Then, having honorably discharged his responsibilities as a guardian, the Master of Buckland would reminisce for a moment about his poor dear departed sister Primula, and wave his little nephew out of the room.

This summons turned out to be different. Frodo was informed that he was to leave Brandy Hall that very week, and go to live with his Cousin Bilbo.

"I'm not sure I want to leave Buckland," Frodo said, although he had always been very fond of Bilbo, who had wonderful stories (and equally wonderful presents) for all his young cousins. And it wasn't that Frodo didn't like adventure—he was forever off in the woods searching for elves (and mushrooms). But he wasn't sure how he felt about this kind of adventure. It seemed a lot more uncertain and a lot less likely to end in the death of a dragon or troll.

"You aren't understanding the situation," said Uncle Rory. "Bilbo Baggins has decided to adopt you. He's going to make you the heir to Bag End and his entire fortune. I haven't the slightest idea why, but nobody really understands why Mad Baggins does anything. So you see, you don't have any choice in the matter."

Catching Frodo's stunned expression, he set down his glass of wine and leaned forward in his great carved chair. "It's not that we want to be rid of you, my lad," he added, with uncharacteristic kindness and perception. "But this isn't an opportunity you can afford to turn down. Surely you don't want to be nothing but a dependent all your life? For the sake of your dear, departed mother…"

Frodo quickly stemmed the tides of reminiscence by agreeing to the adoption. Uncle Rory was right about one thing. He couldn't refuse. It wasn't the money–he was too young to really care about that. But in all of his short life, nobody had ever actually _wanted_ him anywhere.

"Excellent!" said Uncle Rory. "That's settled then. And I dare say young Meriadoc and the others will be down to visit you often enough."

* * *

Frodo settled in quickly at Bag End. He had been worried about what Bilbo would expect from him. At Brandy Hall he had been left to his own devices most of the time, and he wasn't sure what it would be like having a particular relative responsible for his upbringing. But he needn't have worried. Bilbo, who had never had children of his own, had always tended to treat his young cousins respectfully, as if they were small adults. Towards Frodo, he was companionable but distant, requiring no great displays of affection or gratitude. Frodo, who was almost in his tweens, appreciated Bilbo's trust, and curbed some of the wild behavior that had characterized his time at Brandy Hall. He didn't want Bilbo to think better of his decision to bring him to Bag End.

Bilbo gave him a comfortable little room with a window, which he said had been his as a lad. The place was lavish, and far more spacious than he was used to, but it was also comfortable and cluttered, and filled with old maps and books and odds and ends, each of which had its own fascinating story. Frodo's education had been much neglected, in Bilbo's opinion, but surrounded by such mysteries he quickly took an interest in the wealth of information that Bilbo's library had to offer.

Frodo hardly dared to ask Bilbo why he had decided to adopt him. Bilbo had made some comment about the convenience of celebrating their birthdays together, and another about not wanting to leave everything to the Sackville-Bagginses, but otherwise seemed disinclined to discuss the matter. In fact, Frodo soon realized that Bilbo was a master of evasion. Ask him about something he didn't want to talk about, and he'd soon be telling a fascinating story about something completely unrelated.

One fine and starry night not long after Frodo came to Bag End, they sat outside the front door until very late at night, while Bilbo smoked his pipe and told Frodo the story of his greatest adventure, from beginning to end. Of course, he had to leave out some parts, but it was the most complete retelling Frodo had ever heard.

"And after the Battle of Five Armies, Thorin was formally crowned as King Under the Mountain, and he and all his folk started the long work of rebuilding their home. I stayed on for a few months, and then made my way back here to the Shire."

"What was he like?" Frodo asked eagerly, having hardly dared to speak a word throughout the whole story. His dreams of elven wonders had momentarily been displaced by visions of stern dwarf warriors wielding mighty swords, and majestic halls carved deep into the earth.

"What was who like?"

"Thorin Oakenshield! I've never seen a king before. Other than you, I don't know anybody who has."

"Well…" Bilbo sucked on his pipe thoughtfully. "He's everything you would expect a king to be, really. Very serious, honorable, all that sort of thing. Not kind, nor generous with strangers, but loyal and protective of his own people."

"Was he brave?" It was all very interesting, but Frodo wanted to hear more about swords and battles and thrones, and that sort of thing.

"Oh, yes," Bilbo said. "Fearless. He had a complete disregard for his own safety, actually. He seemed nearly invincible. Except, of course," he added in a lower voice, "the times that he wasn't. Anyway, he thought nothing of taking on a dozen orcs, or a warg, or even a troll in single combat."

Frodo's eyes shone. "That sounds amazing."

Bilbo smiled wryly. "He could also be as stubborn as the Gaffer's old mule, and he had a temper like a firecracker. But his people really respected him. That's the thing with kings, Frodo. There are some that spend their entire lives on jeweled thrones, and everyone bows and scrapes and calls them "Highness", but nobody really cares a fig what they think about anything. And then there are the ones that earn their followers' respect, because they care so much and fight so hard that they inspire those around them to greater deeds. Those kings, you'd do anything for a word of praise from them."

"And he was that kind of king?"

"Oh yes, he was," Bilbo said. "Or is, I should say. He's still ruling in Erebor, as far as I know. I haven't had word from there in many years."

"I'd love to go there someday," Frodo exclaimed. "See the Lonely Mountain, and Dale, and all of that treasure!"

"It's a long way away, my boy," Bilbo said. "But stranger things have happened. Still, while I don't regret any of my adventures, I rather hope you'll have a quiet life."

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night. Actually, it was one of the worst storms to hit the Shire in recent memory. Bilbo and Frodo were sitting by the fire, toasting buttery slices of bread and watching the downpour.

"It feels like something dramatic should happen tonight," Frodo said, after one dramatic clap of thunder.

"Is that hail I hear?" Bilbo asked, handing Frodo the toasting fork and heading over to the window. "If so, something dramatic is going to happen tomorrow morning when the Gaffer catches sight of the carnage in our garden."

His casual use of the word "our" made Frodo feel a warm glow, quite apart from the warmth of the fire, but he was not to be distracted from his original point. "I really feel like we're sitting in one of the old stories right now, maybe on the eve of a battle, or something like that. I don't think I've ever heard such loud thunder."

"Is that so, my lad?" Bilbo leaned closer to the fire. "The truth is, exciting things very rarely happen when you expect them, and the weather almost never cooperates. Why, think of all the times it rains during weddings! And the eve of a battle is bound to be beautiful and sunny, likely as not. The same holds true of funerals, I believe…" he trailed off, his mind off in some faraway place that Frodo could neither imagine nor see any hint of in his clouded gaze. Frodo busied himself buttering another slice of bread.

"Now, there is one thunderstorm I do remember quite well. Well, actually, it was more of a thunder _battle_. Did I ever tell you–?" But he was cut off by a heavy knock at the door, so loud that it seemed the door might pop right off its hinges.

Both hobbits jumped up from their seats, and the slice of bread slid off the toasting fork into the fire with a disturbing thump and sizzle. Bilbo rescued its flaming remains with a muttered curse, and hurried to the door. Frodo followed him, somewhat more cautiously.

Bilbo carefully unlocked the door, which swung open with a creak. Standing behind him in the hallway, Frodo could only see that the shadowy figure that stood outside was heavily cloaked, completely drenched, and much too tall and wide to be a hobbit. Then, he noticed that Bilbo's entire body had frozen. Astonishment? Fear?

"Well…there's a sight I never thought I'd see again," Bilbo said softly, almost to himself. Then, more briskly, "Come inside, you're soaked through."

The shadowy figure stepped over the threshold, trailing mud and what appeared to be gallons of water. He flung back the hood of his cloak, and Frodo saw that he was in fact a dwarf, but a dwarf such as Frodo had never seen before, almost tall enough to be one of the Big Folk. He had a neat beard and a wild mane of dark hair streaked with silver, and his expression was grim and frightening.

Frodo thought he had never seen such a serious-looking person in his life. When those piercing eyes flickered his way, he shrank back a little further into the hallway. He wasn't usually a timid boy, but the intensity of the stranger's gaze made him want to hide. Did Bilbo know him? Was this one of the dwarves he had traveled with? There was something strange in Bilbo's eyes, a look he had never seen before. Not fear, but a kind of alertness. Almost a wildness. Surely Bilbo would not have invited someone dangerous into Bag End?

"Yours?" the stranger asked. This seemed to be addressed to Bilbo, although he was still staring hard at Frodo.

"Not…precisely," Bilbo said, still sounding quite shocked. "My nephew. Well, more properly, he's my first cousin once removed on his mother's side, and his father was my second cousin…"

He trailed off, as the dwarf slung a muddy travel pack from his shoulder to the floor, and unbuckled an intricately wrought silver belt from which hung an enormous curved sword. This he handed to Bilbo, who took it with an expression that might almost have been called tender, and set it carefully in a corner.

"Come," Bilbo said. "Sit down by the fire." He took the stranger's arm and guided him to where they had been sitting minutes before.

The dwarf's movements were stiff and labored, and marked by a heavy limp. Bilbo clearly noticed it.

"Are you well?" he asked hesitantly. "Not injured?"

"No," the dwarf said gruffly, and then, grudgingly and after a long pause, "Only the old injuries." He slumped back into the chair, looking exhausted.

Bilbo nodded. "I'm sure the weather and the travel affect such things. Nobody should be out in that storm. " Without being asked, he reached over to undo the silver clasp on his guest's travel cloak, and drew it off over his shoulders.

Bilbo shoved the cloak into Frodo's arms, with instructions to leave it out in the hallway with the pack. Frodo scurried off, and on the way back lingered just out of sight, hoping to eavesdrop. He peeked around the corner, and saw that Bilbo was now helping the dwarf off with his mud-encrusted boots. Strange things, boots. Imagine needing to wear something to protect your feet.

"Frodo! Get us a mug of ale from the pantry."

And so off Frodo went again, missing whatever conversation was occurring in his absence. When he returned, laden with mug, the boots were off and piled on the sitting room floor, along with an impressive collection of chain mail, leather bits, and small weapons. The dwarf was leaning back in Bilbo's armchair, his eyes half closed. Shyly, Frodo handed him the mug. He took it in big, square hands, acknowledging the young hobbit only with a curt nod, and then drank half of it in one long gulp.

"I never thought I'd be back here again," he said. His voice was deep and harsh, but not unpleasantly so. It reminded Frodo of sunless places beneath the earth, where nothing grew and no hobbit would ever dare to venture. "I never thought I'd see this land again, and yet here we are, and it all seems very much unchanged. Even you seem unchanged, and I was given to understand that your kind aged more quickly than my folk."

Bilbo only chuckled. "This is the Shire. Come back in a thousand years, I imagine it will look much the same. It's positively allergic to change of any kind. But as for this old place, you're right, I've hardly touched it since the Company was here. Although I did have to buy back most of the furniture once I got back from Erebor. I'll tell you about that another time, if you wish. It's late, and it seems you've had a long journey. Frodo, can you show Thorin to my parents' old room, you know the one? The bed in there should be of a size…"

Frodo heard the name, and gave Bilbo a disbelieving stare.

"Oh dear," he said. "How silly of me. I haven't even made proper introductions. Frodo, my boy, our noble guest here is Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain."

Frodo froze. How did one address a king? Sire? Your Majesty?

"Pleased to meet you," he tried to say, but it came out as more of a squeak.

Thorin nodded at him gravely.

Desperately, he looked at Bilbo, silently pleading for help. And suddenly, he recognized the strange, wild look that had been blossoming in his cousin's eyes. It was a look of exultation.


	2. Old Scars and New Bruises

**A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful response to the first chapter, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story! A bit of angst lies ahead, so be warned. Hopefully the adorable small hobbits will make up for it.**

* * *

"How long is he going to stay here?" Frodo asked nervously. It was midmorning, and he and Bilbo were just washing up after second breakfast. While it was exciting to meet a king, and he was looking forward to telling Merry all about it, Thorin's presence loomed large in Bag End even while he was asleep. Frodo wasn't sure he liked the crowded feeling. But then, it wasn't really his place to complain about visitors. Having only arrived three weeks before, he was little more than a visitor himself.

"I've no idea, really, but it may be for a while," Bilbo said. "It's a long journey from the Lonely Mountain. I suppose I'd better go wake him, though. He'll be in a foul temper if he sleeps all day and doesn't eat anything."

Privately, Frodo wondered if Thorin had any other kind of temper. Although he realized that the dwarf king had been exhausted from travel, he had not seemed like a particularly sunny personality. Perhaps that's just how kings were. One couldn't expect them to make conversation like ordinary folk.

Bilbo had put Thorin in the biggest bedroom in Bag End, the room that had once belonged to his parents. He had never wanted it for himself, preferring to convert one of the many spare bedrooms for his own use, and so it had been empty for many years. However, the room happened to hold a truly massive (by hobbit standards) carved bed. It was a bit of a monstrosity, really, and not in line with the normally impeccable taste of the late Bungo Baggins, but it was the only bed in the hole that was long enough for their guest.

The slumbering king looked quite out of place amid Belladonna Took's knick-knacks and portraits of plump and cheery Baggins ancestors. He lay curled on one side beneath a homey quilt, his face obscured by masses of black and silver hair.

Bilbo tiptoed into the bedroom and placed a hand on Thorin's shoulder. The dwarf snapped into alertness, sitting up bolt upright and grabbing for a weapon beside him that evidently wasn't there. At least, Frodo hoped it wasn't there.

"Breakfast," Bilbo said, untroubled by this display.

A few minutes later, Thorin emerged from the room, wearing only a simple blue tunic and hose. His unbound hair streamed over his back, and he looked quite underdressed without all the armor. Although, with his broad shoulders and muscular frame, he would have looked twice the size of a hobbit even if he hadn't been so tall.

He settled himself at the table while Bilbo brought him six fried eggs, big slices of bread and ham, and a pot of strong black tea. All of this he ate steadily and with great dignity, and without saying a word to either of the hobbits. Frodo was impressed. Hobbits were known as champion eaters, but apparently Thorin had mastered the ability to consume vast quantities of food with mechanical efficiency.

Bilbo seemed unconcerned by Thorin's silence, and after he finished cooking sat down at the table and lit his pipe, apparently lost in thought.

Thorin drained his third cup of tea, and apparently satiated, pushed back his chair and got up from the table. Frodo watched him head down the hall, a little offended on Bilbo's behalf.

"He didn't even thank you," he said.

Bilbo only smiled. "It's not his way. You'll get used to it. But speaking of thanks, if you don't mind finishing the washing up, I'd be very grateful indeed. After that, I promise I won't ask you for a thing else today. Go see your friends." And with that, he followed after his guest.

* * *

Thorin was struggling to finish one of the braids in his hair. It looked as if he couldn't raise his left arm above the level of his shoulder, or reach back far enough to plait more than half of the braid. After another moment of straining, he grimaced and let his arm fall.

"Want me to do that?" Bilbo offered. "I'm a bit out of practice, but I can probably manage it."

Thorin gave a half shrug. "Kíli usually does it for me. You can use these." He passed Bilbo a little leather pouch, full of various beads, clasps, and ornaments. Some Bilbo recognized, others he had not seen before.

Deftly, Bilbo finished the braid, slipping in the steel decorations that Thorin had been wearing the night before. Then, he started on the rest of the braids–one beneath the first, and two mirroring them on the other side of Thorin's head. Had it really been decades since he had last done this? His hands seemed to remember what to do. Apparently braiding was a skill you never forgot.

"So what happened to your arm?" he asked, accusation creeping into his voice. "I thought you said you didn't have any new injuries."

"Hmmm. Well." Thorin sounded almost embarrassed. "It's an old one, actually. I broke it in three places, about six months after you left Erebor. It never really healed all the way."

"_Six months?" _Bilbo buried his face in his hands. "For goodness' sake, how did you do that?"

"In battle."

Bilbo wondered if it was the way he had broken his arm that was embarrassing, or just the fact that he had gotten himself smashed to bits so soon after rising from his sickbed. Probably the former. Maybe some day Bilbo would get the chance to find out what had happened, but the story was obviously not forthcoming right now. He gave the braids an experimental tug to see if they would hold, a little harder than was necessary.

"At least it's your shield arm. Small mercies. But please tell me that's all you've done to yourself."

Thorin pulled his head out of Bilbo's reach. "In four decades? Hardly. You cluck like an old woman. But nothing else serious. At this rate, I'll be the first member of my family to die a natural death in about a thousand years."

To a dwarf, an injury that was "nothing serious" could mean anything from a stubbed toe to a stab wound that had missed the vital organs, so Bilbo wasn't terribly reassured.

Sometimes when he looked at Thorin, he could still see him as he had looked after the Battle of Five Armies, surrounded by a solemn circle of mourners. It had without question been the worst moment of Bilbo's life, the worst thing he had seen up until that point.

Thorin had been twisted at some unnatural angle, like a discarded scrap of metal from the forge, and there was so much blood. Surely one person couldn't contain so much blood. In fact, a lot of it had been Fíli's, which Bilbo didn't realize until he saw the body they had dragged off to the side. Kíli was clinging to his brother's corpse, wildly fighting off every attempt at medical attention. The left side of his face was a bloody mess, and he was drenched in Fíli and Thorin's blood too, so much of it that they couldn't tell if he was injured anywhere else. They thought he must be all right, because he was struggling so much, but there was no way of knowing, because he wouldn't let anyone get close enough to check.

And Thorin…the utterly sick feeling in Bilbo's stomach when he looked at that crumpled body, the layers of flesh sliced open, and the gleam of exposed bone even underneath all that armor and skin and muscle. Thorin's eyes were wide open, and he was gasping for breath, but little rivulets of blood were coming out of his mouth, and there was a horrible rattling noise every time his chest rose and fell. This was not going to be a clean death in battle, but one of those nasty lingering ones that everyone remembered and nobody talked about. The kind that got edited down in the songs to "And then he fell beneath the blades of many foes." If he had been a lesser warrior, someone would have taken a knife to his throat and ended it quickly, but because he was King Under the Mountain they were going to stand around helplessly and watch the gory show until its inevitable conclusion.

Bilbo knelt by him, tried to shift him to a more comfortable position, because he was clearly in agony, but Balin pulled him back. "There's nothing to be done, Master Baggins. Better not move him now." So Bilbo took Thorin's big hand in his two little ones, and tried not to scream. As awful as this scene of dying was, as much grief as he felt, more terrible still was the acceptance in the eyes of the Company. They had lost fathers and brothers and comrades in this way before, and knew that they would again. Bilbo had seen death enough, in his life, but never like this. So he clung to Thorin's hand, which seemed to be the only uninjured part of him. "Don't do this," he pleaded. "Don't die."

Thorin's bloody lips quirked, sending another trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "Believe me…it's not…intentional."

"Nonsense," Bilbo snapped, quite angry now despite the flood of tears threatening to appear at any moment. "Out of all the dwarves I know, you're the most stiff-necked, foolhardy, idiotic, bloody-minded…" He broke off, choked by a sob. "Don't you dare tell me that you aren't doing this to us on purpose. You're far too stubborn to die otherwise. And we need you. You think you just get to do the glorious fighting bit, and then dump the actual work onto someone else? Well, think again. You are not allowed to die!"

Thorin broke into a long fit of coughing that wracked his entire body, punctuated only by occasional desperate gasps for air. At last, his eyes closed, and he lay still. The Company bowed their heads in silent respect. Only Bilbo was close enough to hear him murmur. "All right. I won't. "

And he didn't. It was days, perhaps weeks, before the others would dare to hope that he was going to live, but Bilbo trusted Thorin's word. He knew that somehow, it would be all right. And as bad as things got, he held fast to that assurance.

Whenever Bilbo talked about that day and the days that followed, he would say "And then, after we won the Battle of Five Armies, peace was restored and Thorin Oakenshield took up his throne and rebuilt Erebor." This made him quite as bad an editor as all the bards and chroniclers of old, but apparently some things you just couldn't talk about. It was something he had noticed often when Balin or one of the others was telling him some story of a battle, at Moria or elsewhere. They would be in the middle of describing with great relish the gruesomeness deeds of a vicious orc, or some bit of dwarvish derring-do, when suddenly they would break into a flat narration, their eyes growing distant. Bilbo would understand that they were remembering some old horror, too private and too terrible for recounting.

Maybe now that Thorin was here in the Shire, Bilbo would be able to stop remembering. Even though the images were so vivid, even after all this time. Maybe he could replace them with memories of Thorin eating at his table, sitting in front of his fire, walking through the green and rolling hills of Hobbiton and Michel Delving.

"What are you staring at?" Thorin rumbled, breaking his reverie.

"Just remembering what it looked like when your guts were all on the outside," Bilbo said, aiming for flippancy. It worked. Thorin let out a very un-kinglike snort.

"Thank you for that, Master Baggins."

But he wondered if Thorin, who had seen many more terrible things in his time, understood how he felt. He thought about an old king, beheaded and defiled in Moria, and imagined that Thorin probably understood as well as any dwarf ever would.

"I should have mentioned it earlier, but I'm very glad you've come," Bilbo said, and this time he was able to look at Thorin directly without seeing the blood and gore and the path of every scar on his body.

"Didn't I tell you I would? You should know by now that I keep my word. But come, I've brought a few things from the Mountain for you. In fact," Thorin said, very gravely, "I doubt I would have been able to carry everything they wanted to send you. I imagine you'll have to come to Erebor to collect the rest of the lot."

Bilbo laughed at the image of eleven dwarves crowding around Thorin trying to get him to pack _their_ gift.

"Well, no hobbit can resist a present. Let us proceed, my liege!"

* * *

Merry Brandybuck's attempts to boost Frodo up into one of the Twofoot's apple trees weren't going very well. The branches were too high, and the hobbits were too short.

"Maybe we should get a ladder," Frodo said dubiously.

"It'll be fine," Merry said. "Here, stand up on my shoulders, and then I'll lift you up. Ow!" Frodo had managed to grab onto of one of the lower branches, and was now dangling wildly from it, but had accidentally kicked his friend in the face while attempting to strengthen his hold.

At last, Frodo was securely in the tree and filling his pockets with the Twofoots' apples, which were beautifully red and crisp and sold for very high prices at market.

"Aren't you going to tell me about your guest?" Merry called up. "Or at least toss me down an apple after all the work I did getting you up there."

Frodo shushed him. "I'll tell you later. Do you want the whole neighborhood to hear you?"

It was too late. Clematis Twofoot emerged from her house shaking her mop in the air and threatening to give the young rascals a good thrashing. Frodo scrambled down from the tree, sending apples flying, and he and Merry made a break for it.

"Please tell me you at least saved me an apple," Merry panted a good while later, when they had reached relative safety.

Frodo pulled four from his pockets. They were a little battered, but still delicious.

Merry inspected the loot. "This is what our bruises are going to look like, if Mistress Twofoot ever gets hold of us."

"Great warriors we are," said Frodo. "Fleeing in the face of the mighty mop."

"Show some respect, Frodo. Many a young hobbit has quavered and quaked in the face of that mop. Did we hesitate? No! We ran away as quickly as we could, and lived to scrump another day."

When the apples were gone, and Frodo's stomach was pleasantly full, he finally told Merry who had arrived at Bag End the night before.

Merry listened attentively to the whole story, a rarity for him, and when Frodo was done he let out a long whistle. "Royalty in the guest bedroom! Well, they always did say old Bilbo was strange. So, are you going to introduce me to Thorin Oakenshield?"

"Are you mad?" Frodo demanded. "He's hardly said two words to me. He has Bilbo running around like a servant. To be honest, he's not really what I expected from Bilbo's stories."

"Can't you be a little more excited? How often do famous dwarf warriors come to the Shire? Anyway, here's what we're going to do: if you're determined to be stubborn about it, we don't even have to go inside. Just let me get a good look through the window. He won't even know we're there."

* * *

**Thank you for all of your reviews, they are wonderfully helpful and encouraging!**


	3. Kingly Gifts

**A/N: Here you guys go, chapter 3! Please enjoy, despite (or because of?) the healthy dose of angst. Also, this chapter finally explains (or starts to) the title of the story...in case anyone was wondering about that, I know it doesn't make a lot of sense on its own. Thanks again for all your awesome reviews!**

* * *

Frodo elbowed Merry in the stomach. "Get down from there. They're going to see you!" He still didn't know how his cousin had persuaded him to spy on his own home. At the time it had seemed like a clever solution to the dangers of facing Thorin Oakenshield, but now it just seemed like a suicide mission.

Merry ducked down beneath the window, his face shining with excitement. "Thorin looks just like I thought he would. He's so tall! He must over five feet."

Frodo shoved him down just as Thorin started to turn around. "Can we stop this now? I don't want to get in trouble."

Since moving to Bag End a few weeks ago, he had been very careful not to let Bilbo catch him at any kind of mischief making. The adoption hadn't even been formalized yet. He didn't want Bilbo to change his mind about the whole thing, especially with such an important guest in the hole. Bilbo might realize the whole idea had been a terrible mistake, and pack him back off to Buckland. And what if Uncle Rory didn't want to take him back? Frodo had lived there on his charity for twelve years already.

"What's wrong with your sense of adventure, Frodo? I didn't see you hesitating to climb up that apple tree an hour ago. Besides, it looks like they're bringing something out into the front parlor." Merry managed to squirm out of Frodo's grasp and they both popped up to peer over the edge of the windowsill. Of course, it was at that very moment that Bilbo turned around. The two young hobbits froze. Frodo fought off a moment of panic. What would Bilbo think of this kind of behavior? To his astonishment, Bilbo just grinned and quickly looked away, pretending not to see them. Frodo breathed out a long sigh of relief.

"I told you it would be fine," said Merry. Of course, at that exact moment Thorin turned around to see what Bilbo was looking at, and caught sight of the two curly hobbit heads sticking up over the window. His eyebrows rose slightly, and then his expression darkened.

They dropped down underneath the window. "Whoops," said Merry.

"Do you think we can make a break for it?" Frodo whispered. "Or is it too late?"

They cringed as the window above them slid open, and braced for an onslaught of dwarvish wrath.

"Good afternoon, lads," said Bilbo, quite cheerily. "Thorin was just about to show me some things he brought all the way from the Lonely Mountain. Would you two like to see them?"

"Please!" Merry exclaimed, any shame he might have felt about getting caught immediately evaporating. He would have probably climbed in through the window, if Frodo hadn't grabbed his arm and marched him around through the front door.

Thorin didn't look angry at them, at least not any angrier than usual. To Frodo's disgust, Merry gave him a neat little bow. "Pleased to meet you, sir. I'm Meriadoc Brandybuck, of Buckland. Frodo and I grew up together."

Thorin actually returned his bow with a solemn inclination of his head. "Indeed. Are the two of you related as well?"

"Oh, yes!" Merry said eagerly. "Frodo's mother and my old granddad and Mr. Bilbo were all first cousins."

"Bilbo does seem to have a great number of cousins. An inexhaustible supply, one might say."

"Is that a moral failing on my part, Thorin?" Bilbo asked laughingly. "I'll try to have fewer if you like, but I warn you that they're a difficult lot to get rid of."

Thorin stroked his beard. "It's strange to me how your folk seem to grow to such great numbers in so few generation. But then, my people are of stone, and yours belong to fertile earth, so I suppose it must be only natural."

"Don't you have family, sir?" asked Merry, ignoring Frodo's swift "shut up" kick to the shins and stepping on his foot in retaliation. "Not even cousins or anything?"

Thorin shook his head, sending his braids swinging. "I have kin with whom I share a great-grandfather, or some more distant ancestor, although Durin's line has become somewhat weakened in these days. But as for close-kin, I've only a nephew yet living."

"Oh," said Merry, a bit abashed. "I'm sorry." But Thorin had already turned his attention to his travel pack, and was drawing forth an assortment of marvelous gifts for Bilbo. There were several books that looked as if they were very old and somewhat the worse for wear, but Bilbo stroked their cracked leather bindings lovingly and seemed to be quite enraptured. Then came a beautifully carved pipe with silver inlay, and another pipe in the shape of a dragon, where the stem was a spiked tail and the bowl a nastily grinning head.

"Bofur's work?" was Bilbo's only comment.

Then came a miniature double-headed battle-axe, magnificently decorated and entirely hobbit-sized.

"That's from Dwalin and Gloin," Thorin told him. "They said that if you were going to keep carrying an elvish blade, you needed to have one of our weapons to match."

"Very considerate of them," Bilbo said. "It's beautiful." It was also apparently quite heavy, and Bilbo had to strain to lift it even with both hands. He shot a warning glance at the two younger hobbits, who had darted in to "assist".

"I did tell them that I doubted you would have a use for such a thing in a peaceful land like this, but they insisted, and then Balin said…"

"What?" Bilbo prompted.

"Never mind." Little lines were appearing at the corner of Thorin's narrowed eyes. Frodo was starting to think that might be his smile, although the rest of his expression remained impassive.

Thorin reached into the pack one last time, and withdrew a small, securely wrapped oilskin package. He handed it to Bilbo.

"From Kíli," he said. "He wouldn't tell me what was in it, but apparently he made it himself."

Bilbo set to work unwrapping the package, and at last removed a little carved box the size of his fist. It was simply decorated with a pattern of stars and diamonds, but made from some glossy black wood that Frodo had never seen before. Curiously, he reached out a finger to stroke its smooth and inviting surface. Bilbo lifted it away from him.

"Just a moment." Gently, he lifted the lid, and drew out a shimmering golden chain, a richer color than any gold Frodo had ever seen. But it was the ornament that dangled from the chain that was the true marvel. It was a tiny pendant, only the size of a thumbnail, but it looked as if it had been spun out of moonlight rather than crafted by living hands.

"Mithril?" Bilbo asked, holding it up for Thorin to see. Frodo could see that it was some sort of flower, although not one he recognized. However, now that Bilbo had said it, Frodo did see that the metal was the same one that Bilbo's mail shirt was made from.

The dwarf king nodded confirmation. "He must have had to melt something down to make that, we don't mine it. Does the vezedrûn have some personal significane to you?" Bilbo cupped the flower gingerly in his palm and ran a finger over the silvery blossom. The cheery expression he had been wearing moments before had entirely vanished. He jumped to his feet.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'll be right back."

Merry shot Frodo a confused glance, as if to say _What is your crazy cousin doing now?_

Frodo shrugged. _Like Uncle Rory always said, who knows why he does anything?_

* * *

Bilbo locked the bathroom door behind him and splashed his face with cold water from the basin. Silly of him to get upset, he knew, but he had suddenly and desperately wanted to be alone. He had been about to blurt out, "Yes, the first time I saw that flower was at Fíli's grave." This was a happy occasion. He was getting presents. It wasn't fair how the memories had to come back so vividly sometimes.

He stared at the little mithril ornament dangling from its chain. Vezedrûn, the dwarves called it. Stoneflower. It grew only in Erebor, and apart from a few dried blossoms he had tucked away, he hadn't seen one in years. He had first seen them about ten days after the Battle of Five Armies, three days after Fíli had been laid to rest.

Perhaps a year before, Bilbo would have been frightened to enter the vast and gloomy catacombs of Erebor, but it seemed that little frightened him these days. Making his way through rows of stone warriors bound in eternal slumber, he found Kíli sitting curled against his brother's tomb. Since the funeral, he had refused to move from this spot, and was apparently also refusing to eat. The left side of his face was still bandaged, and the bandages were none too clean. He did not raise his head as Bilbo approached, although Bilbo made sure not to walk too quietly and startle him.

"Thorin is asking for you," Bilbo said eventually, when Kíli showed no sign of acknowledging his presence.

Silence.

"I don't think he's actually going to believe that you're alive until you come and see him. He refused to believe it at first, he was so sure you had…anyway, if you don't go and see him soon, he'll think we're all lying to him."

"So you're Thorin's messenger boy now?" Kíli snapped, his voice breaking through the stillness in the air like a whip. It was the most he had said to anyone in days, as far as Bilbo could tell, and it sounded like he had been weeping so much he could hardly remember how to talk.

"Oh yes," Bilbo said, forcing lightness into his voice. "There's not a lot of burgling to do around here these days, so I've been demoted to errand-hobbit, sickroom attendant, and general busybody." Kíli didn't respond, already retreating back into his private world of sorrow. Bilbo should try to get him talking again. But he could not think of a single thing to say. He should leave now, before Kíli's utter despair swallowed him up. There was enough creeping shadow in his own heart already, enough fear, enough grief. And he could not afford to falter now.

His eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness. Looking about him, he noticed little flowers sprouting from the ground all around them. He reached down to pick one, hoping he wasn't committing an act of sacrilege. You never knew with dwarves.

"What are these?" he asked. "I thought nothing grew here."

Kíli shrugged, and Bilbo turned the flower between his fingers. He'd have to look at it in real light to be sure, but it seemed to be a tiny, colorless sort of thing. A little ghost of a bloom, seven-petaled and grey.

Suddenly, exhaustion hit him. He felt like he had just been stepped on by a troll and couldn't possibly move another step or cry another tear. So he slid down onto the cold stone floor to lean against Fíli's grave, and bowed his head to his chest.

"I wasn't made for this," he heard himself saying. "People die in the Shire all the time, but it's mostly of old age, or illness, or really stupid accidents. I got myself all worked up about Smaug, I guess, but the battle wasn't something I was ready for. I couldn't even imagine it. I don't think I was made for this kind of life."

"Me neither," Kíli whispered a moment later, so quietly that Bilbo almost didn't hear him. "I wasn't ready either. I'm not a prince, Bilbo, not really. I've never seen a real battle before, and I hope I never see another one. I failed Thorin and I failed…" He couldn't say his brother's name.

"You didn't fail Thorin. He's going to be fine."

"He's not _fine_. They told me…" Kíli couldn't say it. "They told me that even if he doesn't die, he'll be, you know, crippled."

"This is Thorin we're talking about!" Bilbo said. He was getting quite good at his falsely cheery voice, and no wonder, with the amount of practice he'd had lately. "He's stubborn. But he wants to see you."

Kíli shook his head. "I can't face him. I'm supposed to be the heir now. How am I supposed to do that? I'm useless. I never want to see another battle again. Fíli was supposed to be the heir. He was always the heir. I'm the one who should be in here. I can't go on without him. I want to die. " He slammed his fist against the tomb. "I should have died."

Wearily, Bilbo got to his feet. Maybe it was too soon after all. The funeral had only been three days ago. Surely even Kíli's grief must run its course eventually.

He cupped the wispy little flower in his palm. He'd ask one of the others about it. "I'd better get back. But come soon, if you can." As he picked his way out of the catacombs, he noticed that the blossoms were growing all around in scattered patches, seeming to sprout from the very rock. He had been so sure that nothing could grow in Erebor, but he didn't mind being proven wrong.

* * *

That night the sky over Hobbiton was beautiful and clear, as if the storm of the night before had never existed. Bilbo and Thorin sat outside the front door smoking, although Bilbo had left his new dragon-pipe on display inside. Bilbo asked after the various members of the Company, who he had received very little news of in recent years. They were all well, Thorin said, and flourishing along with the new Erebor. Balin and several others been talking for a long time about an expedition to reclaim Moria. Thorin had not forbidden it outright, but had done his best to discourage them. But now, with Thorin away and Kíli in need of good counsel, he doubted Balin would be leaving Erebor any time soon.

This reminded Bilbo of something else he had meant to ask about.

"So what did Balin say about the axe that you didn't want to tell me earlier?"

Thorin tilted his head to one side, and somehow produced an uncannily accurate impression of his cousin. "Just bring it to him, laddie, an' if he doesn't want to use it, you can always mount it over the fire for him."

Bilbo burst out laughing. "Careful there, I might start to suspect you have a sense of humor."

The dwarf only grunted.

"Never mind," Bilbo said, sending an enormous smoke ring sailing off into the night. "I can see my suspicions are quite unfounded. So, you felt comfortable leaving Kíli to rule in your absence?"

"He has grown into a good prince," Thorin said. "Well-loved by his people. I think he will lead well enough, after I'm gone."

Coming from Thorin, this was effusive praise, and the pride in his voice was evident.

"He and Gloin's son are very close," Thorin continued. "I believe Kíli relies greatly on that friendship. It is important for a king to be surrounded by those he can trust, and it would not do for Kíli to rely forever on his uncle's counselors, even if they are also his own comrades in arms. And there are not many of his generation."

Bilbo remembered Glóin telling him once that the numbers of dwarves born in the Blue Mountains had been so few that the birth of his son had seemed a miracle.

"I wish I could meet Gimli," he said. "And see Kíli again, of course." What was Kíli like now, he wondered. Bilbo still could not really imagine him sitting on Thorin's throne, ruling in Thorin's absence. But Kíli would do anything to please his uncle. That would never change.

"Come back with me," Thorin said suddenly, interrupting his musings. "Come back and see my Erebor. It has changed so much since you were there. It's thriving again now. You should know what you helped to create."

A warm feeling spread from the crown of Bilbo's head to the tips of his toes. Wouldn't it be wonderful to see all his old friends again? Wouldn't it be wonderful to see Erebor again, fully rebuilt and glorious as Thorin described it?

And then, he felt as if a ton of rocks had suddenly been dumped on his chest. He couldn't go back. Not there. It was a long journey. He was getting old, even if it wasn't showing yet. Frodo was too young to bring, and what would happen to him if Bilbo left?

And if even Thorin's presence here brought back so many memories, surely Erebor would break his heart. He had always though that time and distance could heal all wounds,

"I've always wanted to go back," said Bilbo. "But it's a very long journey."

If he went, he knew it would be for a long time, perhaps years. Perhaps permanently. Could he bear to leave the Shire for so long, or forever? Could he stay in the Shire, knowing he might have given up his last chance to see his old companions?

"You need not decide now," Thorin said. "I think the earliest we could hope to travel safely would be the spring. But you should know that as long as I and my descendents live there will always be a place waiting for you in Erebor. And a family, as well."

Bilbo felt tears spring to his eyes unbidden. Kin meant everything to the dwarves. Declaring an outsider to be equal to one of Durin's folk was not a casual statement.

"I know, my lord," Bilbo said. "I have not forgotten it." And that was the truth of the matter. He had too much in Erebor to stay here—in some ways, his friends among the dwarves understood him better than Shire folk ever could. And yet, he had too much in the Shire to abandon. His heart belonged to two homes now.

He touched the mithril flower on its chain beneath his shirt. Everything had worked out, hadn't it? Everything was all right now. Whatever he decided, it would have to be all right.

They talked until late into the night, speaking only of good and pleasant times, and Thorin's hopes for how Durin's line would prosper in fifty and a hundred years and down through the ages, and never again be touched by poverty and exile and despair.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! ****Comments of all kinds are always most welcome!  
**


	4. Little Warriors

**A/N: So, I'm really sorry about how long this took! Life got quite crazy. I'm going to do my best to stick to at least weekly updates from now on, though. Thanks for your patience, and I hope this was worth the wait. **

**This one is for everyone who wanted more Frodo and Thorin interaction. I promised I'd get to it eventually! **

* * *

Bilbo was in a cooking frenzy. This mood seemed to strike him about every ten days, and it made Frodo terribly nervous. Bilbo would simply wake up of a morning and set upon the kitchen with an almost violent determination, as if he had an entire army to feed by midday. He would bake, stew, boil, and pickle without rest until some mysterious point at which he decided there was now enough food in the pantry. Satisfied, he would collapse for the rest of the day with a book, too exhausted to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Frodo had quickly learned to stay out of his way when he was in these moods. Most of the time Bilbo liked having help in the kitchen, and unless he was being tasked with a particularly dirty bit of tidying up, Frodo enjoyed helping him. But on these mad days, Bilbo would reject all offers of assistance with a snappish, "Yes, you can help by keeping out of my way!"

So that Thursday morning, Frodo was curled in a corner of the kitchen with a beautifully illustrated volume of birds and beasts of the Shire. He had positioned himself far away enough from Bilbo to be unobtrusive, but close enough that he would be on hand if Bilbo did actually need him to do something, like run out to the market to get a missing ingredient or pick an herb from the garden. Normally he would have loitered in the dining room, to put a little more distance between himself and his cousin, but that space was presently being occupied by none other than Thorin Oakenshield.

Occupied was a highly appropriate term. Thorin had spread out several maps from Bilbo's collection on the dining room table, and spent the morning covering them with little chips of semi-precious stones and then moving the chips back and forth. Frodo had no idea what he was doing, but the heavy furrow in his brow indicated that he found it extremely absorbing.

Occasionally, Thorin would get up from the table, wander into the kitchen, and grab some of whatever Bilbo was cooking. This earned him a succession of evil glares that he completely ignored. Frodo was greatly impressed by this display of bravery. Orcs and trolls were something of an abstract concept to him, but Bilbo on a cooking day was a danger that he understood and respected.

Frodo tried to keep his attention on his book, but he was fascinated by the mystery of the maps. Normally he would have asked Bilbo to explain, but today the interruption was not likely to be well received. Sometimes Frodo wished he had a little more of Merry's daring. He was sure that if his friend had been here rather than back in Buckland, he probably would have marched right up to Thorin and asked directly. On the other hand, Frodo seemed to spend most of his time trying to keep Merry out of trouble, so he wasn't sure what would happen if neither of them knew how to be careful.

He gazed longingly at the maps. Finally, curiosity won out over caution, and he tiptoed into the dining room for a closer look. Thorin was staring at a map of Erebor and its surroundings, arranging pieces of amethyst around the Lonely Mountain and the city of Dale. A much larger number of turquoise nuggets were positioned around Esgaroth and the Long Lake. Since Thorin did not seem to object to his presence, Frodo moved even closer.

"These are my dwarves," Thorin said suddenly, pointing at the amethysts. He jabbed a finger at the turquoise. "And these are an orc horde come down through the Grey Mountains."

Frodo began to understand. "It's a battle?"

Thorin grunted an affirmative.

"A battle that already happened?" Frodo guessed.

"A battle I hope to never see," Thorin said shortly. "But if it happens, my plans will be in place. I'm checking every direction the enemy might come against a defending force of our current numbers." He pointed at the amethysts again. "When I've finished, I will do it again with different numbers of orcs and with my estimates of how many warriors Erebor will have in fifty years."

Frodo gazed down at the arrangement of dwarves and orcs. He didn't understand the strategy Thorin was setting up, but there seemed to be a lot more turquoise than amethyst.

"There's a lot of orcs," he said. "Isn't there anyone else who could help you? Like…the Big Folk in Dale?" He remembered just in time not to mention the elves. Bilbo had cautioned him that Thorin could be sensitive on the subject of elves.

Thorin shook his head. "I cannot count on outside help. It is true that we have fought alongside the men of Dale before, and likely will again, but I am determined that Erebor should be able to defend itself alone against any foe." He patted a full pouch on the table, which clinked. "I do have some 'Men' in here. But it is likely that I will be responsible for their defense. I need to be prepared for that as well." Seeing Frodo's confused look, he elaborated. "I am the lord of a fortress city, the most defensible spot in the entire region. That means that if war comes to our corner of the world, the people of Dale, Esgaroth, the surrounding settlements, and possibly even our kin from the Iron Hills will show up at my door seeking shelter. They will bring warriors and supplies, but not enough. I have to be able to deploy them, defend them, and _feed_ them at very little notice. That is the responsibility of the King Under the Mountain. They love my smiths and my gold, but not as much as they love my walls in these troubled times."

"Responsibility," mused Frodo. It wasn't something he had given much thought to, except for when an adult was telling him he lacked it. In Brandy Hall, he hadn't even been allowed to have a pet. But Thorin had to be responsible for the lives of thousands of people. No wonder he was so serious all the time.

Just then, Bilbo shouted from the kitchen telling Frodo to go down to the market and buy him some currants for a batch of scones. Frodo hurried to obey, only realizing on his way out the door that for the first time, Thorin had actually talked to him. And he hadn't treated him like a child, either, but like an adult old enough to understand the difficulties of kingship.

* * *

The market was Frodo's favorite thing about living in Hobbiton. Twice a week, the local farmers, butchers, bakers, and craftsmen put their wares on display. It might have been a small affair compared to the Big Market every Sunday in Michel Delving, where more serious business was transacted and goods from Bree and further outside the Shire were available, but the residents of Hobbiton took their market seriously. Almost every family in the village grew or made some offering (mostly of the edible variety), and would at least occasionally set up a table. To Frodo, it was paradise. Brandy Hall had been directly supplied with food and other necessities by the village of Bucklebury and nearby farmsteads of the Eastfarthing, importing from elsewhere in the Shire when necessary. Frodo had rarely had opportunity to stroll through rows of stalls and tables, taking in the sights and smells of all the Shire had to offer. As wonderful as a well-laden table was, nothing could compare to the pleasure of wandering through a market with a handful of coins from Bilbo burning a hole in his pocket. Should he buy some of the little meat pies? A peck of apples? It was so hard to decide.

Sometimes Frodo became so lost in serious contemplation of the alternatives that he would spend several hours without buying anything at all. The possibilities were as delicious as his actual purchases. Today, though, he was in something of a rush. It wouldn't do to keep Bilbo waiting. His cousin often gave him a little too much money for an errand, with a wink and the understanding that he should buy himself something extra, but right now the best plan would be to get Bilbo his currants before it got too late in the day. Also, if he hurried back, he might be able to take another look at Thorin's battle maps.

The line in front of the dried fruit seller's stall seemed unnecessarily long that day. Frodo gave his order to the assistant, and then settled down to wait. Impatiently, he scuffed his feet in the dirt and then picked up a little stick he found there, swinging it back and forth and imagining that he was a mighty warrior wielding a sword of Gondolin. He wondered where Gondolin actually was. Bilbo had probably told him at some point, but he had been more focused on battles and adventures than on geography.

A hand fell on his shoulder, making him jump. He wheeled around, dropping his stick-sword back into the dust. A mistake, he knew. A true warrior would never let go of his weapon.

A grey-haired older lady was peering down at him with a pinched and sour expression. Her hair was aggressively pinned up in a bun, with spiky hairpins protruding in all directions. Her dress was starched and ironed within an inch of its life. Frodo could tell that she was the kind of person who made a habit of beating young hobbits with the temerity to track dirt within a mile or so of her doorstep. He tried to take a step away from her, but her bony grip tightened on his arm.

"You must be the Baggins boy," she said. "The one from Buckland."

He nodded mutely.

"Living in Hobbiton, now, I hear?" This sounded quite accusatory.

Frodo nodded again, and made another attempt to squirm out of her grasp.

He would not have thought it possible, but her gaze became even more displeased. "Well, boy? Where are your manners? Didn't they teach you to greet relatives properly in Buckland?"

Frodo's tension was reaching an unbearable level.

"But I don't know who you _are_!" he practically wailed, sounding like a much younger hobbit.

She drew herself up to her full height, mouth working furiously.

"I?" she hissed. "I am Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and my husband Otho is the rightful heir to Bag End!"

Now he recognized her, mostly from Bilbo's less-than-flattering accounts, although he must have met her a few times at extended Baggins family gatherings. Her son Lotho was a few years older than him, and was a horrible boy who had delighted in tormenting his younger relatives at parties by snatching away their presents, even though they were things that he was too old to really want for himself.

Frodo tried to remember his manners.

"Frodo Baggins at your service, Mrs. Sackville-Baggins," he said weakly, extending his left hand to her, as his right arm was still immobilized by her grip. She ignored him.

"Is it true that there is a _dwarf_ living in Bag End?" she demanded.

He sighed. Of course word would have got out. It was the Shire, after all, and gossip such as this would have been irresistible. Thorin hadn't exactly been hiding inside, either, although he had not ventured far from Bag End in the past few days. And while Merry hopefully possessed the good sense not to tell anyone who Thorin was, he might not have been able to resist dropping a few hints about Bilbo's mysterious visitor.

"We do have a guest," he admitted.

"A guest who is a dwarf?"

"Well, yes."

Lobelia looked as if she had just smelled something foul.

"I hoped he had stopped all that nonsense," she sniffed. "He used to have unsavory types coming and going at the oddest times, but we haven't seen any of them in years. But even then, they didn't stay for days and days. What is the family coming to? Nobody will believe the Bagginses are respectable now! A dwarf! Some no-good thieving tinker, I don't doubt, making his living off robbing honest folk."

"He's not!" Frodo snapped. "He's a very honorable person!"

"Hah!" snapped Lobelia. "What nonsense! What does a Buckland brat like you know about it? I hear they associate with all sorts across the river!"

Frodo opened his mouth. How he wanted to tell her the truth! But Bilbo had insisted that the resulting storm of gossip if Thorin's identity became widely known would be unbearable for all of them. The Shire-folk might not know where Erebor was, but they would be quick enough to associate "dwarf" and "king" with "gold", and be crowding around Bag End at all hours hoping for a peek or asking for a handout. Bilbo didn't care much for public opinion, but he valued his privacy—another trait that made him strange in the eyes of the Shire.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was still talking.

"No good will come of associating with such shady characters! You tell Bilbo—!"

Thankfully just then the shopkeeper waved to Frodo with the little parcel of currants, allowing him an excuse for a speedy escape.

* * *

On his way home, he kept thinking about swords. If he had one, surely people would stop backing him into corners and grabbing him and asking unpleasant questions. A real hero wouldn't be afraid of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, he imagined. Although, he couldn't imagine Bilbo whipping out Sting and using it to subdue gossipy relatives. Bilbo had showed him the little sword a few times, and even let him hold it once. But after Bilbo had caught him trying to take it to go show Merry, he had locked it away in a trunk, admonishing Frodo that a real weapon was not a toy and he hoped he would never have an occasion to use one.

What Frodo hadn't seen yet was Orcrist, and it had been sitting by his front door for days now. Thorin had left it propped there rather than to go armed in Bag End, although Frodo was sure that he had some other pieces of concealed weaponry. When he had inspected Thorin's boots the previous day, he had found a little sheath sown into the side of each one. He hadn't found the knives anywhere, though.

So after delivering the currants to Bilbo and retreating from the kitchen, Frodo found himself out in the hallway staring at the great curved sword in its scabbard. He could ask Thorin to take it out and show him, but that didn't seem quite respectful somehow. As Bilbo had said, a sword was not a toy.

But would it really hurt just to take a look at it?

Tentatively, he tried to slide the sword from its sheath. But he was too short in relation to the length of the blade, and merely succeeded in dragging the whole thing a few feet along the floor. It was surprisingly heavy. He could hardly lift it off the ground. Looking about him, he spotted a little table against the wall, and hopped up on it, propping the tip of the sheath against the ground. It wobbled dangerously, but he ignored it in pursuit of his goal. He yanked up with all his strength, and the sword slid free. For a moment, the Goblin-Cleaver was extended magnificently in front of him, the weapon of mighty warriors of Gondolin (wherever that had been), rediscovered in a troll-hoard, and now wielded by the heroic Frodo Baggins—

A sound in the doorway caught his attention. He looked up from the sword and saw Thorin Oakenshield standing there observing him, arms folded across his chest.

Just then, the rickety table collapsed, unable to bear Frodo's slight weight for any longer. Frodo slammed into the floor with Orcrist extended before him and skidded forward, leaving an enormous gash in the flooring. Cautiously, he uncurled his fingers from the hilt and picked himself up to regard the damage. It took a moment for him to gather his courage enough to look up at the sword's owner.

Thorin threw back his head and let out a roar. Frodo trembled. Then, he realized it was not a sound of rage. Thorin was laughing.

* * *

When Bilbo emerged from the kitchen half an hour later, with his last batch of scones finally out of the oven, he was met by an astonishing sight. Thorin was adjusting Frodo's grip on a stick of firewood, showing him a simple thrust and parry.

"My people mostly depend on strength in a fight," Thorin was saying, "But you will never have that kind of advantage, even when you're grown. Better for you to rely on your natural speed and agility. But even so, you should have some experience blocking the attacks of an opponent a great deal stronger than yourself."

Bilbo had been meaning to offer them some scones, but he took one look at Frodo's rapt expression and headed back into the kitchen to start dinner. He didn't want to interrupt.

Later, Thorin told him the whole story of Orcrist, the table, and the two-foot long scrape on the floor in Bilbo's front hall. Thorin had rescued his weapon from the young hobbit and set about supplying him with something less likely to cause permanent damage to the hobbit-hole and its inhabitants.

"I wouldn't have expected you to take an interest," Bilbo remarked. Thorin had seemed to take very little notice of Frodo so far.

Thorin's mouth quirked into a slight smile, but the expression was tinged with sadness. "It reminded me of my lads," he said. "At his age, they were getting into everything—the forge, the kitchen, the weapons. Keeping them out of trouble was impossible. You just had to try to steer their destructive capabilities towards something useful, or at least stop them from doing themselves too much harm."

Bilbo had known that Thorin had been the primary guardian to his nephews for much of their upbringing, but he had never really imagined Thorin with a rambunctious preadolescent Fíli and Kíli in tow. The image was unexpectedly touching, but also more than a bit frightening.

"I think you know a lot more about raising boys than I do," he admitted. "I'm a little out of my depth. I acted on an impulse, bringing Frodo here, and now, well...I'm responsible for him, aren't I? To be honest with you, it's terrifying."

Thorin shrugged. "It's like everything else. You do what you must."

Bilbo glanced down at where the stoneflower pendant was concealed beneath his shirt. He couldn't protect Frodo forever. One day, his heir might face challenges and dangers that he could not shield him from. But until then, wasn't his responsibility to keep him as safe as possible?

* * *

**A/N: ****Thanks for reading! If anyone felt the lack of angsty BoFA backstory, don't worry, it will return next chapter with a vengeance.**


	5. Night Watches

**A/N: More BoFA plot, as promised! It's probably pretty self-explanatory, but just so everyone is clear, the past-time scene in this chapter takes place before what I showed in Chapter 3 (Kíli at his brother's grave). I am showing the past scenes in a specific order, but it may not be strictly chronological. **

** Thank you once again for all your fantastic reviews! I hope you enjoy. **

* * *

Sometimes when Bilbo could not sleep, he would tiptoe down the hall to Frodo's room and crack open the door to make sure all was well with his young cousin. Tonight, as with every other time he had checked in the last few weeks, Frodo was fast asleep, moonlight falling across his tousled dark curls.

Suddenly, Bilbo felt quite absurd. He could remember his mother looking in on him when he had been a very small hobbit, but Frodo was a big lad, nearly in his tweens. And although he had always enjoyed the company of his younger relatives, he had certainly never wished for children of his own, or experienced much in the way of parental instincts. He was old enough to be the boy's grandfather, after all, even if he still looked as if he was in his sixties. Bilbo still wasn't sure bringing him here had been the right decision. At the time he had thought it kind, but perhaps he had only been indulging his own foolishness. After all, he could easily have made Frodo his legal heir without taking him away from Brandy Hall. But Bag End had grown to seem very empty in recent months, with only maps and memories to keep him company. After nearly seventy years of perfect contentment in his bachelorhood, it seemed that at last loneliness had caught up with him.

Quietly, Bilbo shut the door again. But on his way past Thorin's room, he again had that overpowering urge to look inside and check to make sure all was well. He slipped inside, and watched the steady rise and fall of Thorin's chest beneath the blankets. Thorin peacefully asleep was a rare sight. In all the time Bilbo had known him, he had almost never seen him sleep through a night. If he had nothing else to occupy him, he would brood silently or pace back and forth for hours. Kíli had once admitted that as a child, he had been convinced that his uncle actually did not sleep, because every single time he got up in the night Thorin had been awake.

Even hovering between life and death, there had been a restlessness about him, as if he was unwilling to remain unconscious for long.

Almost out of habit, Bilbo seated himself in a little wicker chair next to the bed. It was a familiar vigil. The first few months in Erebor, he had been at Thorin's side almost constantly. That first night, he had been afraid to leave even for a moment. He was the only one who seemed to believe that Thorin was going to live. Thorin's promise had reached his ears alone. What would happen if he stopped watching?

The healers had streamed in and out of the room for what seemed like hours. They cleaned, stitched, bandaged, and conferred with each other in a mixture of Westron, Khuzdul, medical jargon, and several other languages that Bilbo understood equally poorly. Then, one by one, they started to leave.

"Nothing more can be done now," said the one who seemed to be their leader, a squat fellow with elaborately curled black sideburns and a bristly beard. "We will return later. In the meantime, there are many other wounded that have not yet been seen to."

"Wait," Bilbo called after him. The healer gave him a look of forced patience. Bilbo was almost tongue-tied by the magnitude of his questions. He wanted to demand if it was really possible for Thorin to live through the night, if he was in much pain, how long it would take for him to wake.

"How is he?" he managed.

The healer gave a professionally ambiguous shrug, no sign of optimism visible in his expression. "He's already made it for longer than I would have thought possible. Perhaps he'll surprise us and survive after all. But if he does, he may wish that he hadn't. Nobody can bounce back from injuries like this, no matter how strong his will to live."

And so Bilbo had been left alone to his silent watch. Where were the others of the Company? He had not seen them since Thorin had been carried from the field of battle, but he guessed from their absence that there was a great deal of work to be done before any of them could be spared. In his experience, the cleanup always took longer than the actual event. Well, if it was true of parties, why shouldn't it be true of battles as well? Some principles were universal.

"It's very cold," Thorin whispered sometime in the early hours of the morning. His lips had started to acquire a bluish tinge, and his hand felt cold and clammy to Bilbo's touch. Bilbo searched for extra blankets, and found nothing. This had to be the worst equipped sickroom in Middle-Earth. Curse Erebor! Most of the wounded had been brought to tents in the ruins of Dale. But even though the gatehouse was cold, dank, and felt like a tomb, Bilbo could not deny that Thorin certainly would prefer to be in any part of Erebor than anywhere else. Hopefully with the help of Dain's army, they could get the place up and running soon.

"I'll be right back," he promised, not sure if Thorin could actually hear him. There were several other groups of injured being kept elsewhere in the gatehouse. Perhaps there would be more supplies with them.

He darted out into the hall and hurried along until he ran into a guard wearing an enormous fur cloak. It would have to do. He grabbed at it, ignoring the warrior's horrified look and attempts to swat him away like an overgrown insect.

"It's for the king," he snapped at last. "And go find me some more blankets, while you're at it."

The dwarf blinked at him in confusion. "Do I look like a servant to you, halfling?"

Bilbo felt a blaze of rage rising in his chest. "No, you look like a damn fool. Now make yourself useful!"

The warrior scurried off. Bilbo glared at his retreating back. He was not feeling kindly towards dwarves that night. Clearly they all had nothing but gravel between their ears.

Bilbo tucked the cloak around Thorin and pulled the blanket back up over him, trying not to look at the mangled body beneath. He wished one of the confounded healers would come back. Shouldn't at least one of them have stayed here? He felt useless and alone and afraid, and it was far too quiet.

In a few minutes, Thorin's shivering did seem to ease, and he rested more quietly again. Bilbo was starting to feel rather chilled himself. He wrapped his arms around his chest, sticking his hands underneath his armpits for warmth. He tried thinking of the Shire, as he often did in dark moments, but for the first time he could not summon up any pleasant images of home. He could not remember what it had been like to sit in front of a cheerfully crackling fire with a musty old book, or to putter about his garden on a sunny April afternoon. When he closed his eyes, all he could see was the field of battle.

"Bilbo!" croaked a familiar voice. It was Bofur, carrying some sort of bundle. He was staggering with exhaustion, and smeared with dirt, but other than a nasty gash across his forehead he looked uninjured. "I've brought you change of clothes."

Bilbo glanced down at himself, and was astonished to find that he was covered in blood. His shirt and pants were stiff with it. He looked like he had gone for a swim in a very unpleasant sort of red jam. A gore-encrusted hobbit was an unusual sight indeed. He shuddered. No wonder the guard in the hallway had looked at him so strangely.

He stripped off his ruined clothing, shivering in the chill air, and pulled on the rough wool tunic Bofur offered him. It was far too long, and the sleeves came past his hands, but it was warmer than what he had been wearing, and blessedly clean.

"What I'd give for a bath," he muttered.

"We're not exactly set up for it yet," Bofur said. "At least you've a lot less hair than the rest of us. I fully expect to be picking orc bits out of unlikely places for the next week." He sank down onto the floor and slumped against the wall. "Just going to rest a minute…then back to work."

"What's going on out there?" Bilbo asked. "Where is everybody?"

"Clearing the battlefield," Bofur said, exhaustion causing him to achieve more succinctness that the exhortations of his friends ever had. "Making sure we've found all the wounded. Identifying the bodies. Setting defenses. Digging graves. We've got to bury our fallen, and then deal with the bodies of the orcs and wargs . But there aren't that many uninjured, so everyone with both legs and at least one good arm is out there right now."

"Should I be helping too?" Bilbo's stomach lurched at the prospect of pawing through piles of orc corpses looking for the bodies of his allies.

"Nah. Better stay here. One of the Company should, at least."

Bilbo sighed. "I don't think I'm exactly part of the Company after that business with the Arkenstone."

Bofur nodded towards the cot that held Thorin's still form. "It's not the time to worry about that. I heard it's pretty bad." With a wince, he heaved himself to his feet and adjusted the hat. "I'd better get back to it. It's almost dawn. You seem to be holding up all right, considering. I'm glad. " He turned to go.

Bilbo wanted to shout at him not to leave him here alone. Instead, he asked: "Have you seen Kíli?"

Bofur shook his head wearily. "They took him to Dale. With…with the body." He patted Bilbo's arm. "It's good you're here. You'll come fetch us, if..." he swallowed. "If something happens." He gave Thorin another pained look. He didn't expect their king to make it through the night, Bilbo realized. None of them did.

"Don't worry," Bilbo said. "Everything will be all right. And I'll come get you right away if anything changes."

"Everyone will be here when they can be," Bofur promised.

And then, Bilbo was alone again. Sometimes Thorin stirred and muttered a few words before slipping back into unconsciousness. Bilbo grew frightened when his breathing started to seem too quiet, although he thought that if he was in much pain, maybe it was better for him not to be awake.

The night seemed to stretch on endlessly. It could be dawn already, for all he knew. He was not sure if Bofur had come minutes or hours before. He was growing so tired, and could not remember the last time he had slept. Several times his head started to droop before he caught himself and snapped back to alertness. But he could not seem to stay awake.

A flutter of motion and a faint touch on his wrist brought him back to full awareness once more. Thorin was reaching towards him, but did not have the strength to close his fingers around Bilbo's arm.

"What is it?" Bilbo asked, taking his hand and placing it back carefully by his side. Thorin's eyes were open wide, staring. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. A spasm of pain flashed across his face.

"Promise," he rasped, almost inaudibly. "Promise…"

"Promise what?" Bilbo asked, leaning closer.

But speaking appeared to be too much effort. Thorin sagged back into the cot. "I do hope this isn't supposed to be some sort of dying wish," Bilbo told him, tucking some of the now thankfully plentiful blankets back around him where they were coming loose. "I warn you, whatever it is, I shall do precisely the opposite to spite you."

"I don't…doubt it," Thorin said, seeming a little more alert now. "Stay. If you want me to stay…you have to stay. Only fair."

Bilbo's hand flew reflexively to his pocket, and then retreated. Thorin was right. He had an obligation now. He did not yet understand its extent, but that was no excuse.

"Did I earn one fourteenth share of the mess, your majesty? Very well then. I won't leave this filthy, gloomy fortress until you have no more need of me here."

Gradually, as night melted into morning, the members of the Company trickled into the room in little groups. Bifur and Gloin came first, carrying armfuls of fuel and kindling, and Gloin managed to get a fire going in a grate that had clearly not been used for centuries. Ori staggered in with a bandage wrapped around his forehead, but was clearly more exhausted than hurt. He told them that Oin was down the hall with some other wounded that had just been brought in, but would join them soon. Then came Bombur, supporting a limping Nori on one arm and carrying a pot of some sort of lumpy stew with the other. Bofur and Dori showed up a few minutes later with a stack of bowls and spoons, and began to share out the meager meal. They all spread out blankets on the floor and ate in silence. Then, they settled down on the floor and closed their eyes.

Finally, after most of the others were asleep, Balin and Dwalin arrived. Their faces were grim and troubled.

"What a mess we're in," Balin murmured, passing his brother a bowl of cold stew. Dwalin prodded at it dubiously with a spoon, and then began to eat. They slumped down by the fire, and Balin buried his face in his hands.

"Have you been in Dale?" Bilbo asked quietly. "Did you see Kíli?"

"Aye," Balin said, grimly forcing down his own meal. "But I'd rather not think about that at the moment."

Dwalin started to get to his feet. "I'm going back. The lad shouldn't be alone."

Balin held up a hand to stop him. "Not now. He was asleep when I left. Finally wore himself out. Go back in a few hours. The first waking after a loss is the worst."

"Is he badly hurt?" Bilbo asked.

"There's no risk to his life, although the healers don't know about that eye of his. It took six of us to hold him down long enough to tend to it." Balin's obvious desire to speak no more on the subject filled Bilbo with dread. When he had seen Kíli after the battle, he had been hysterical to the point of insensibility. From what Balin said, it sounded like he had not calmed down in the hours that followed.

"Thorin woke up a few times during the night," Bilbo said. "I don't think the healers really know much. They kept saying to wait and see. They wouldn't tell me anything else."

Balin groaned. "They weren't so considerate of our tender sensibilities. Or Dain's. We got a wonderfully detailed description of his condition. Which I will spare you for the time being."

Dwalin, who had been stalking back and forth in front of the fire, directed his wrath towards Thorin's motionless body. "You never thought about this, did you? You were so sure the dragon would turn us all to ash and cinders that you didn't bother thinking what would happen if we actually succeeded! Please, tell us exactly how we are supposed to deal with this situation. Do you want us to put Dain on the throne? Steal away his people with the treasure that Bard and the elves are so eager to haul off under our very noses? Or would you like us to hold Erebor for an entire winter with ten dwarves and hope that we haven't starved or frozen or been driven out by the time our kin can get here from the Blue Mountains next spring? Because I'm sure that the Lake-men are going to be extremely tolerant and generous in helping us with supplies. Here's an idea—why don't we just eat the treasure? At least then we'll be rid of it before our enemies realize that Dain might not stop them from taking it away from us! So if you're going to die, could you just hurry up and do it? Everything would be a lot simpler that way. Empty throne, empty city, Dain's army, lots of gold."

Balin slapped him hard across the face.

Dwalin did not flinch at the blow, but stared at his brother in astonishment. All the anger seemed to drain out of him, and he slumped back against the wall. "I didn't mean that."

"I know," Balin said. "I know." Gently, he brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen across Thorin's face. "But we will find our way out of this mess, as we have before. That's what Durin's folk do. With or without our king, we'll endure."

"Thorin's going to live," Bilbo insisted. "He promised. Twice." They looked at him in confusion, as if they had forgotten who he was for a moment.

Balin patted his arm. "If anyone could make it through this, it would be Thorin," he agreed. "Let's just hope he recovers in time to aid us with his unique style of negotiations."

Dwalin managed an amused snort. "Dain will be overjoyed."

Thorin stirred and growled something rude in Khuzdul. Dwalin shot him a glare. "You were awake for all of that, weren't you?"

"You were…being loud." Thorin broke into a fit of coughing. Balin hurried to raise his head and held a cup of water to his lips.

"Rest now," he said. "Don't worry about anything else. Everything will be fine." He passed Bilbo a blanket from the pile. "You get some sleep, Master Baggins. I'll sit with him a while."

Bilbo dragged the blanket across the floor to settle in a space between Bofur and Ori. The stone floor and scratchy blanket felt as wonderful to him as the best bed in Rivendell. An image of the Shire, lush and green, flitted before his eyes and vanished into Erebor's gloom. It was like waking from a dream. A moment later, he was fast asleep.

* * *

"Is everything all right?" Thorin's sleepy voice rumbled, jolting Bilbo out of his dream.

"Sorry," Bilbo said. "I couldn't sleep so I came in for a minute. Your insomnia must be spreading."

"Clearly not. You were snoring." Thorin rolled over and lit a candle on the bedside table. The sudden light made Bilbo's eyes water.

"I was having an awful nightmare," he said. "I was baking a pie, and all of a sudden it jumped out of the oven, grabbed a rolling pin, and started chasing me down the road. I looked back, and realized that it was actually Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and she had just succeeded in getting me out of Bag End."

Thorin shot him a deeply skeptical look, which was punctuated by a yawn. He reached underneath the bedside table to pull out a lap-sized harp.

"To cure you of such terrible visions," he said.

"I didn't know you still played."

Thorin settled the harp in his lap, testing the strings and tuning a few of them. "My fingers don't have their old cleverness, but I can manage a bit."

Bilbo smiled. "I remember they said you'd never hold a sword again, or even walk. I supposed at this point, I shouldn't be surprised by the harp."

Thorin struck a chord. "If I gave any consideration to the expectations of others, I'd still be grubbing about for work in the Ered Luin in my dotage. Or, more likely, back in the Iron Hills watching the last days of my line."

Bilbo considered telling him that the parents of Erebor probably lived in constant terror that their children would settle upon him as a role-model for achieving greatness through sheer obstinacy. Instead, he shut his mouth and listened to Thorin play.

* * *

Frodo woke in the middle of the night, and tossed and turned for some time without being able to fall back asleep. Finally, he decided to visit the kitchen for a drink of water or a midnight snack, if one was handy. Bilbo might have left out a few currant scones from the most recent batch.

As he crept down the hall, he heard strains of a melody drifting out of Thorin's room. It was hard to make out, but as he got closer, he thought it might be the sound of a harp. He put his ear to the door, and listened. It was unlike any music he had heard before. He had heard plenty of dance music and fiddle tunes in his life, along with children's songs and a few mildly inappropriate drinking songs, but this was none of those things. It sounded sad to him. Not mournful, but filled with a desire for something that would never return. It reminded him of how he felt sometimes when he thought about his parents, who he could hardly remember.

More than all the books he had read and stories he had been told, the existence of such music made him understand that there was a world outside the Shire. It woke a restlessness in him that made him feel a sudden and sharp longing for places that he could not imagine, and he knew that he would never be whole again until he had seen them with his own eyes.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading! I know there was a lot of heavy stuff in this one. I am being so mean to the Company! At least the rest of the dwarves finally put in an appearance. And hopefully it is becoming clearer why Bilbo has so many horrific memories from Erebor. **

**Just a little teaser: the next chapter is entitled "The Gardener's Boy". **


	6. The Gardener's Boy

**And we're back! Happy March everyone. (And happy Spring Break)**

* * *

Sam's Gaffer had been keeping him clear of Bag End for weeks. He always had a good excuse, but Sam was pretty sure that it was all part of a plan. Back in early September, he'd been around to see to Mr. Bilbo's garden nearly every day, and to see Mr. Bilbo as well. But the last few weeks, since just after Mr. Bilbo's birthday, the Gaffer had been doing the whole garden himself, and sending Sam out to work elsewhere.

That morning, however, the Gaffer had absolutely been needed to plant the rest of the bulbs the Underhills had ordered, and Sam had seized his chance. Quick as anything, he'd volunteered to go over to Bag End and deal with tidying the remains of the garden.

"Winter's not nearly here yet," the Gaffer grumbled. "You're just looking for a chance to loiter about and pester Mr. Baggins, and I told you I'd have no more of that."

Sam did his best to look innocent. He was the youngest of the family besides little Marigold, and not above some wheedling to get his way. Sure enough, the Gaffer had relented.

"But only to do the garden, mind you," he cautioned. "I don't want you to come back with your head full of elves or notions of book-learning. It's not for you, Samwise Gamgee."

Sam was too pleased with the way the situation had worked out to argue. He knew that learning to read had been a foolish scheme. He was the gardener's boy, after all. But Mr. Bilbo was always full of such schemes, and that was why Sam loved talking to him. Mr. Bilbo didn't seem to much care who Sam's father was, only that he was curious and interested in the things that Mr. Bilbo could tell him.

The truth was, Sam loved gardening. He loved the feel of the earth between his fingers, the smell of it, the sight of the tiniest flower poking up towards the sun. He'd never resented his lot in life, and he knew that reading was of no use to him.

But he still didn't see why it was so terrible to hope to see an elf or two in his time. He could easily go back to his gardens afterwards.

That was part of why he had been so keen to get to Bag End as soon as possible. It was widely known that Mr. Bilbo had a visitor who had been in residence for some days already—a dwarf! Such types had been seen coming and going from Bag End in the past, and had been equally talked of at the time, but nobody in Hobbiton could remember Bilbo's guests staying for anywhere near this long. Nobody had any idea who this dwarf was, but rumors were flying about like leaves in the October wind, and Sam wanted to get a look for himself if he could. He'd have to be careful though—he wasn't about to go hiding under the window and spying like a fool.

As he came around the side of the hill, he saw a hobbit boy of about his own age in front of Bag End brandishing a long stick and making some sort of stabbing motion over and over again. Sam bent over to pull out his hedge clippers from his bag of tools, and studied him. He was fairly slight for a hobbit, with enormous blue eyes and lots of curly dark hair. This must be Frodo Baggins, Sam realized. He had seen him before, running around Hobbiton with gangs of his Brandybuck cousins on trips from across the Water. They were well known to be terrible rascals, badly disciplined, and frequent garden-thieves. Their leader, of course, was Meriadoc Brandybuck, who was the wildest of the lot of them, but so charming that no one ever minded him for long. Frodo, on the other had, was widely believed to be a bit strange. Sam's Gaffer had strongly disputed this in recent weeks, arguing with all who would listen that Frodo Baggins was a perfectly normal lad who had just been unlucky enough to lose his parents at a young age.

Just from looking at him, Sam couldn't tell if he was strange or normal. He seemed completely absorbed in whatever it was he was doing with that stick, and didn't even notice that Sam was there until Sam started trimming the hedge. He jumped about a foot in the air at the first _snick_ of Sam's clippers, and wheeled around to stare at him. He didn't look annoyed though, or even alarmed. He just looked at Sam for a long time, with his wide, curious eyes.

"Hello," Sam said at last, when the silence was starting to hurt.

"Hello," said Frodo, offering him a hand. Sam glanced down at his own hands, which were covered in dirt, and then back at Frodo. Frodo grabbed his hand anyway and gave him a firm handshake. "I'm Frodo Baggins," he said.

"I know," was all Sam could think to say. And then, a bit embarrassed: "Samwise Gamgee, at your service. Though folks mostly call me Sam."

"Oh!" Frodo said. "You must be one of Gaffer Gamgee's boys then, am I right?"

"That's right, sir," Sam said. "Maybe Mr. Bilbo mentioned me?"

Frodo gave him a baffled look. "Not particularly." Sam felt a twinge of disappointment, which he tried to keep from showing on his face. There was no reason for Mr. Bilbo talk about him, really, although he'd been stopping by Bag End rather often in the past. He had almost dared to hope that Mr. Bilbo would notice his absence, and might say something to his Gaffer about it. Because if Mr. Bilbo really wanted to teach him, the Gaffer couldn't really object—he had too much respect for him. But clearly Mr. Bilbo had been far too busy to thing about such things, what with him adopting Frodo, and having dwarf visitors, and so on.

Suddenly, he felt a bit of a fool, and turned aside to busy himself with the hedge. After all, he had work to do.

"What wrong?" asked Frodo. Sam supposed he hadn't done a very good job wiping the glum expression of his face. He shrugged.

"It's nothing, only I'd better be after getting to work."

Frodo went quiet and just stared at him again. Sam was starting to see why Hobbiton folk thought that he was odd.

"Do you want help?" he said at last.

Sam couldn't have been more astonished if Frodo had sprouted wings and soared off into the blue. For a moment, he floundered, his mouth flapping wordlessly. Then, he blurted out the first objection he could think of.

"But…your clothes!"

Indeed, Frodo's clothing was rather fine—deep green breeches, a snowy white shirt, and a chocolate-brown waistcoat. Frodo glanced down at them, and shrugged.

"I'll go change, then!" And he raced off into Bag End, letting the door bang shut behind him.

Sam shook his head, and started on the weeds—there were far too many of it for this time of year. The Gaffer must be more overwhelmed with work than he was letting on. He was looking forward to the winter, when their gardens wouldn't need nearly so much keeping up with.

Frodo returned a few minutes later wearing an old shirt.

"Bilbo says you're to come in for elevenses when we've finished."

"Oh!" said Sam. "I really couldn't. I mean—he doesn't mind you being out in the garden?" It still didn't seem right to him, but he couldn't exactly object to the help if both Frodo and Bilbo were insistent. Bagginses could really be so strange.

Frodo grinned. "I think he's just glad to get me out of the kitchen. Says it's too crowded with both me and Thorin hovering in there."

Sam assumed that Thorin was the dwarf. It looked like he might get a glimpse of him after all. Wouldn't that be something! But first, these weeds had to be dealt with.

* * *

Frodo proved to be an enthusiastic (if unskilled) weeding assistant. Sam managed to stop him from pulling up too many plants that were not actually weeds. He had to admit that he liked Frodo's company. If things were different, they probably could have been friends.

When they were done, they trooped inside to find Bilbo, with Frodo leading and Sam following behind a bit hesitantly. It had been one thing to visit when it was just Bilbo alone in Bag End. Now that there were other people living there, he felt more like an intruder.

Mr. Bilbo heard them come inside and met them in the front parlor with a tray laden with tea and cakes. Sam hurried to take it out of his hands.

"Why, hello there young Samwise!" Bilbo said. "I haven't seen you in my garden for quite some time. I was starting to think you'd abandoned it."

Sam ducked his head in greeting, suddenly embarrassed. Bilbo could look quite severe at times, although he probably didn't mean it.

"Sorry sir, only we've been so busy. My Mum's been ill again, and it's just me and Marigold at home now, so…" he trailed off, his excuses sounding weak to his own ears. Not that he was lying, but his Mum had mostly been sick since Marigold was born, and that was sixteen years ago.

Bilbo laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right, lad. I wasn't trying to scold you. But if you intend to learn your letters properly, you must come more often. These things take time and discipline."

Sam felt a flush creeping over his face.

"I know Mr. Bilbo, I really do. And I do want to learn to read, more than anything. But my Gaffer says that there's no use in folks like us getting that kind of learning. He says all I need to know is how to write my name, and an X will do for that in a pinch."

Bilbo pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I understand, Sam, I really do. Of course I'm happy to teach you any time, but your father is a practical hobbit, and I'm sure he knows best."

Sam's stomach lurched with disappointment. He had hoped that Mr. Bilbo would intervene for him. The Gaffer would never deny Mr. Bilbo anything, he thought too highly of him. But Sam should have known that Mr. Bilbo wasn't the sort to throw his weight around in other people's families.

"I really do _want _to read and write," Sam repeated. "It's just, I suppose he thinks I shouldn't be spending so much time on things a gardener doesn't need to know."

"He's wrong," rumbled a deep voice from the corner. Sam and Frodo spun around in surprise, while Bilbo merely lifted an eyebrow.

In a large armchair by the fire sat the dwarf—Thorin. He sat leaning back in the chair with his feet (covered in soft leather indoor boots, how strange) up on a footstool, but even in that reclining position there was a sense of power about him. He was like some large animal crouched down in hiding, but ready to pounce on his prey as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Sam could see why he had spawned so many rumors. He was completely unlike any of the itinerant tinkers and other dwarves that Sam had seen pass through the Shire. He looked dangerous. His eyes were half –closed at the moment, but Sam had no doubt that they possessed a fearsome glare. His heart gave a little flutter. This had been excitement worth coming over for.

Frodo let out a little laugh. "I didn't see you over there."

"Your father's wrong," Thorin repeated softly, almost as if he was talking to himself. His voice still carried throughout the room. "It is important for you to know how to read."

"Begging your pardon, sir," Sam said, glancing at Thorin's fine blue tunic and the gold chain around his neck. "Not to disagree, but you look like more the educated sort myself, if you take my meaning."

Thorin's eyes snapped open, and he half turned in the chair to look at Sam more intently.

"I do, but I have some experience with the matter. I did not learn my letters, as you would say, until I was over a hundred years old."

Sam gaped at this, before remembering that dwarves had much longer lifespans than Shire-folk.

"Now that I didn't know," remarked Bilbo. "Fascinating. But you did read and write runes, I take it?" And then, turning to Sam and Frodo, he explained "Thorin's people use a different writing system than our alphabet, an older one."

Sam hadn't known there was more than one way to write. He had figured that letters were letters, and that was that. But he supposed it made sense that people who spoke other languages wrote other letters.

"True," said Thorin. "I was not of a scholarly bent as a lad, but I could read three different rune systems and spoke several languages. We were a trading people, after all. But we never wrote in the Tengwar, even if we were transcribing the common tongue. We preferred to use our own writing for all that. You see, if you are rich, you can write how you please. But when you are poor, you become subject to the whims of others."

"You see," Thorin continued, his eyes darkening with anger at some old memory, "When I was younger, and first came to this part of the world, I went out to work as a traveling blacksmith."

Sam nodded. He had seen plenty of those types before. He was a bit disappointed, though. He had thought that Thorin was something grander than a blacksmith.

"There was no trust between me and the Men I worked for. They thought that I would try to cheat them if I could, and I assumed the same of them. I, at least, was correct. They had no honor, placed no value on their word. They thought nothing of sending me away with a pittance after a week of labor, claiming that they had promised me no fee. I soon learned that the only way to collect my pay at the end of a job was if I had a written contract in hand, signed by me and by my employer. Contracts were almost always enforceable by the local law. If one of them signed his name to a piece of paper, he would abide by what was written on it."

"But soon they found another way to cheat me. I could not read their letters. I had to ask to have the contracts read out to me before I signed. And after I had done business in town this way once—"

"They started lying about what the contracts said," Frodo finished.

Thorin nodded at him. "Exactly. At first it would be small difference in pay, small enough that I might question my own memory. But then, one wretch actually read out a completely different agreement to me than the one I put my name on. The one I signed said that I would receive no money at all if the work was not completed 'to his satisfaction', whatever that meant. I tried to argue, but of course I had signed my name, and so there was not much I could do about it."

"I needed that money. Winter was approaching, I had family to support, and I hadn't earned nearly enough that year. I worked for that man for three weeks, and he tried to send me off without a single coin. I…grew angry."

"Oh dear," Bilbo murmured. "Did you kill that Man?"

Thorin smiled. It was the most terrifying expression Sam had seen in his life.

"No. But he certainly wished that I had."

Sam shivered.

Bilbo sighed. "Thorin, I'm not sure that this story is serving the instructional purpose you intended."

"I'm coming to that," Thorin said. "You see, it did not change anything. In fact, I ended up giving over most of my earnings from that season as blood-money to his relatives. I had to return empty handed to the Ered Luin. It was not a good winter. But I spent it learning to read. If I had only done it sooner, a lot of trouble could have been avoided."

"Hah!" said Bilbo. "I think that's the first time I've heard a dwarf suggest that a solution other than violence might be preferable."

Thorin glowered at him. "We are a simple people. We tend to solve our problems in the most direct way possible."

"What's wrong with that?" Frodo chimed in. "Us hobbits can gossip and backstab for a quarter of a century without ever trying to do anything about our problems at all."

"The problem with that, my boy, is that if I hear about you punching anyone in the face over some dispute, I will most certainly be having words with you."

"Do you see what I mean?" said Thorin. "He would take you far more seriously if you threatened to thrash him for it."

Frodo gave Thorin a horrified look.

"Don't worry," Bilbo reassured him. "He's joking. Probably."

Sam stared at them all like they had gone crazy. Thorin didn't look like he was joking to _him. _

"Anyway," Bilbo said, turning back to Sam. "I believe Thorin's point, other than that sometimes hitting things doesn't work, is that knowledge is power. If someone you are dealing with can read and you can't, that is power that they have over you."

"You're the philosopher," Thorin said. "But yes, that is what I was saying. Here in the Shire, you are mostly dealing with honest people, and people you have known all your life. But you never know where life will take you. You might some day be in a position where it is dangerous for you to be illiterate."

"Oh," Sam demurred. "I don't imagine I ever will leave the Shire, Mr. Thorin, but I do see what you mean. I'll be sure to talk to my Gaffer about it."

* * *

Upon returning home that evening, Sam was able to confidently inform his neighbors and family that Mr. Bilbo Baggins's guest was a retired blacksmith, who had come from money in his youth but had fallen upon hard times later, although he was now clearly not suffering from financial hardship. No doubt Mr. Bilbo had encountered him on one of his trips to Bree-land.

This story made so much sense that it quickly spread throughout Hobbiton and the rest of the Shire, although more creative minds were loath to give up on the idea that Bilbo's guest was a smuggler, fortune hunter, or fugitive. But at last even they were forced to concede that it was much more likely for a visiting dwarf to be some sort of blacksmith or tinker than any of those things.

When the rumor reached Buckland, Merry Brandybuck so much forgot himself as to exclaim: "He is certainly not a blacksmith!" before remembering that Bilbo had told him not go spreading around Thorin's true identity. And so all that he could say was that he was sure Thorin was something much grander, to which all his older relatives replied that he had an overactive imagination and should probably spend less time visiting his Cousin Bilbo.

The other thing that happened that evening was that Bilbo spoke to Gaffer Gamgee and arranged for Sam to come to Bag End twice a week to be tutored along with Frodo.

"It will encourage Frodo to pay more attention to _his_ studies," was how Bilbo phrased it. The Gaffer was so flattered that he couldn't possibly argue.

Bilbo did not tell either of the younger hobbits that it had been Thorin's idea.

* * *

**A/N: This was originally going to be from Frodo's POV. However, as soon as I started writing, Sam took over! I never intended to write from the POV of anyone other than Frodo or Bilbo, but this was a lot of fun, so I hope you enjoyed it!**


	7. Two Invitations

Frodo prodded the porridge with his spoon. It squished, but failed to look any more appetizing. No one had ever given him porridge for breakfast in Buckland, which he thought showed admirable good sense on the part of his Brandybuck relations. He was hungry enough, but staring into his bowl was starting to make him lose his appetite.

"Add some honey," Bilbo said unsympathetically. He tucked into his own bowl with gusto. "I don't know what you have against it, it tastes perfectly fine."

It was just Frodo's luck that Bilbo, who was normally as lax a guardian as anyone could wish for, was absolutely stubborn about food. The kitchen was his domain, and all meals were planned, prepared, and distributed by him. Under his watchful eye, Frodo was allowed to assist with certain food-related tasks that did not involve use of fire or anything very sharp. Most of the time, Frodo got asked to do the washing up. But like all hobbits, he was glad for any excuse to be in the kitchen, and Bilbo was a talented cook. Frodo rarely had any reason to do other than eat what he was given. But Bilbo had no patience for finicky eaters. If Frodo didn't like his porridge, he had better eat it just the same.

He poured a generous dollop of honey into his bowl and spent more time than was necessary mixing it into the porridge. He was just about to lift a tentative spoonful to his lips when Thorin took a seat beside him at the table. The wooden chair he had chosen emitted a soft creak. Thorin's long-term residence in Bag End was making it quite clear that hobbit furniture was not built with a dwarf's height _or _bulk in mind. Thankfully, the late Bungo Baggins had believed that sturdy furniture was a worthwhile investment, and so long as Thorin didn't go about in full battle armor nothing seemed in danger of imminent collapse.

As usual, Thorin started the day by gulping down several cups of black tea, which Bilbo brewed for him to be so strong that one sip of it had made Frodo think his eyes were about to fly right out of their sockets. This tea, he had observed, appeared to be vital to Thorin's ability to speak in complete sentences. Before the third cup, he rarely did more than grunt irritably.

Today, he was giving the pot of porridge a baleful stare that very closely mirrored Frodo's own feelings. Frodo felt suddenly grateful to have an unexpected ally.

Bilbo looked from the porridge to Thorin and back again. Then, some strange emotion flickered behind his eyes. He stood up from the table.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I wasn't thinking. I'll go make something else. Do you want bacon?" He bustled off into the kitchen.

Frodo gave Thorin a long, considering look.

"Why don't you have to eat it?" he asked. True, Thorin was a lot larger and more frightening than he was, but Bilbo wasn't the type to be intimidated. After all, he had faced down a dragon before. There must be some other reason why Thorin was not subject to the tyranny of the kitchen.

Thorin took another long swallow of tea.

"Did you ever eat something while you were sick, or feel sick after eating something, and then find that later on you could not abide the sight of it?"

"Sure," Frodo said. "Once Merry and I stole a whole bunch of Aunt Esmeralda's pecan pies —well, it was Merry's idea really—and we ate so many of them that I spent the whole night throwing up. And ever since then I haven't been able to eat pecan pie. Merry still can, though. It's really not fair."

Thorin nodded gravely.

"It's something like that, I imagine."

"So you ate porridge while you were sick, and now you can't eat it at all?" Frodo asked.

"Not just porridge," Bilbo said, coming back into the room with a plate of bacon and eggs for Thorin and a single piece of bacon as a pity offering for Frodo. "That winter I stayed in Erebor, we didn't have enough food. It seemed like all we had to eat for months was gruel and terrible stew."

"You don't seem to mind," Frodo pointed out.

Bilbo shrugged. "I wasn't sick at the time. Besides, it takes a lot more than that to put hobbit off his food."

Frodo picked up his spoon and started to eat the porridge. At least he had never had to worry about a food shortage, although he knew that there had been at least one terrible winter in the past hundred years when even the Shire had suffered from a famine. He could manage to eat porridge for one morning, as long as he didn't have to have it every day for months.

* * *

Bilbo chuckled inwardly as he watched Thorin sneak Frodo a couple more pieces of bacon. Like most dwarves, he was not particularly gifted at subtlety. Nevertheless, Bilbo pretended not to notice. He didn't care that much what Frodo ate. It seemed that whatever he tried to be strict about with the boy failed miserably, probably because he had no idea when to be strict and when to be lenient. He had realized quickly that Frodo was probably too old to have his cousin telling him to clear his plate, although he could certainly remember his own mother crossing her arms over her chest and telling him that until he was the master of the house he should shut up and eat what he was given. He had been thirty-five at the time.

He hoped he would get the knack of being a guardian eventually.

He was also glad that the bacon seemed to be distracting Frodo from asking too many questions about Thorin's "illness". Frodo knew that Thorin had sustained serious injuries in the past—the dwarf king still had enough of a limp to make that much obvious. But he showed astonishingly little evidence now of how bad it had been. And if Bilbo had any choice in the matter, Frodo would go on forever looking at Thorin as an invincible warrior who had appeared out of the blue to make his life more exciting. He didn't want Frodo to be exposed to the truth of Thorin's world—how much he had lost, and how much he had suffered, to become the king that he was now. Thankfully, Thorin seemed to agree with him about that, and had not chosen to burden Frodo's ears with any of the details. Not that he had ever been given to speaking openly about what he had lost, at least not in a personal sense.

There was a sharp, impatient rap at the door. Buried deep in his own thoughts, it took Bilbo a moment too long to notice it. But he knew that sound.

"Wait!" he shouted. "Don't open it!"

Frodo had already headed off to answer it, abandoning his unwanted porridge with alacrity. At Bilbo's yell, Thorin jumped to his feet, and a small, wicked looking knife appeared in his hand. Now where had he been keeping _that_?

He shook his head wildly at Thorin, trying to indicate that they were not in actual, physical peril. Then the sound of the door swinging open sent him into a further panic and he did the only thing he could think to do.

He stuck a hand into his waistcoat pocket and slipped on his magic ring.

Thorin stared at the place where Bilbo had been a moment before, shrugged, and followed Frodo to the door. Bilbo trailed after him wringing his hands and having a care to walk silently.

"I'm here to speak with Bilbo!" said a shrill, carrying voice. "Where is he?"

As he had suspected, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was standing by the front door, loudly making demands. Bilbo felt a twinge of shame at deserting his family in a time of crisis. But it was not a very substantial twinge of shame. Sometimes, his sense of self-preservation was just too strong.

"I'll…just go get him," stammered Frodo, sounding as if Lobelia had clobbered him over the head with her purse.

Thorin stepped up behind him and crossed his arms over his chest.

Lobelia somehow managed to peer down her nose at him, an impressive feat considering that she was a full foot and a half shorter than he.

"Bilbo is not at home," Thorin rumbled. Frodo looked confused.

"Pish-tosh!" exclaimed Lobelia. "I heard his voice just now, I know I did!" She fixed Thorin with her fiercest glare, and reached up to fiddle with her dangerous-looking hairpins, unsure of how to deal with someone who did not immediately get out of the way for her.

"I believe," said Thorin, "That any business you have with Mr. Baggins can be addressed to young Frodo here."

"Oh, what a state this family has descended to!" cried Lobelia, sounding slightly more daunted but no quieter. Bilbo winced, and covered his ears. This could go on for a while. "And all because of him. Running off on adventures! Favoring stray relatives over his lawful heirs! Do you know what they call him behind his back? _Mad Baggins_, that's what. The head of the family! And we were one of the most respectable families in the Shire, in his father's day."

Thorin took a menacing step closer to her, and she drew back in alarm, stumbling against the door.

"Any business you have with Mr. Baggins," he repeated, "May also be addressed to ME. I will see he receives any message you would care to leave for him. But I will hear no words spoken against him in my presence, and if you have come only to shout abuse in someone else's hallway you had better be on your way."

Lobelia was actually silent for a full fifteen seconds. Her mouth opened, closed, and then opened again. Thorin opened the door behind her and she stepped back out onto the front step.

"Er." she said, in a normal speaking voice this time. "Um. Well. You see, I really came to…to invite him to a tea I am hosting this Thursday. Yes, that is precisely why I am here."

"Is that so?" Thorin said coolly, ignoring Frodo's desperate tug on his sleeve. "Then we will be delighted to attend. Good day." And he shut the door so quickly that the tip of Lobelia's pointy nose was nearly caught in its trajectory. Bilbo watched as she marched off down the road, with her fists clenched, but staggering slightly.

He was impressed in spite of himself. He had certainly never managed to get rid of her so quickly. He tiptoed into the kitchen, removed his ring, and walked back out to rejoin Thorin and Frodo.

"Did I miss anything?" he said. Thorin gave him a look of disgust.

"Bilbo!" Frodo wailed. "Thorin accepted an invitation to tea from _Lobelia Sackville-Baggins!_"

"Oh dear," said Bilbo, shaking his head in mock alarm. "I suppose I'll have to write and tell her we can't make it."

"You'll do no such thing," said Thorin. "Hospitality is hospitality. It would be dishonorable to decline it. I do hope that no Baggins would be so _cowardly_ as to run from such an invitation."

"No, of course not, " Bilbo said weakly. He had survived much worse things, after all. Trolls. Wargs. Dragons.

Confound the Sackville-Bagginses, though.

* * *

On rainy afternoons, Thorin would sometimes bring out his harp and play for them. That day, he did so, at Frodo's request. Frodo listened with shining eyes, and Bilbo allowed his mind to drift off to earlier days, when he had sat around a campfire with thirteen dwarves and a wizard and listened to them make a different kind of music. Thorin had rarely played back then. For him, music had been something solemn and nostalgic. But Fíli and his fiddle had entertained them many an evening. The young dwarf knew a good many tavern songs, some from the Ered Luin where he had been raised, some from the Men he had traveled among, and even a few that reminded Bilbo of tunes from the Shire.

One night, early on their journey, Kíli had tried to sing a bit of something in Khuzdul, and Thorin had cut him off with a fierce look and a glance at Bilbo and Gandalf.

"Not among outsiders. Haven't your mother and I taught you better than that?"

"But Thorin," Fíli said, interceding for his brother as always. "It's not forbidden to speak it around them, just to teach it to them."

"Leave it to me to decide what's forbidden," Thorin snapped. "Our tongue is the only treasure we have left. We should guard it carefully."

"But–"

"Behave yourselves! Do you want me to regret bringing you?"

There had been no more music for several days.

Of course, Thorin had relaxed his attitudes about language as time went on. Bilbo had heard plenty of Khuzdul in Erebor, and even a few songs.

Thorin sang one for them that night. Bilbo had not heard him sing in a long time.

"I was put in mind of this song recently, when I saw Kíli's gift to you" Thorin said. "I believe I heard it in my youth. It's an old song of Erebor, and quite mysterious in its way." As he began to sing, Bilbo felt a chill run down his spine, and he trembled. Thorin's voice was low and quiet, and yet seemed to fill every nook and corner of Bag End. He could not escape it.

_Sof lilan na dhazad rûk_

_Mahal olak sezt chanlukh?_

_Vezedrûn o vezedrûn,_

_Na dern lilan hanfun?_

_Bachar duzgul mendanun,_

_Tanden zos asof nantukh._

"What does it mean?" Frodo wanted to know, still rapt.

Bilbo shushed him. "It's not polite to ask, my boy."

Thorin shrugged. "I can tell you, although I won't do the poetry much justice, nor can I tell you what it means. Quite literally, it says something like 'The flower that blooms at night beneath the earth, did Mahal put it there? Vezedrun, do you only bloom when he is watching you? You are pale next to the riches of our mines, but point out greater mysteries.'"

Frodo shook his head. "I don't understand it at all. It doesn't sound like proper poetry to me."

"Well, it's poetic enough in Khuzdul, I think. Perhaps your cousin could do it more justice in the common tongue." They turned expectant eyes on Bilbo, who flushed. He seriously doubted his own merits as a poet. But he did love to try.

"If you insist, I'll make a stab at it" he said, and cleared his throat.

_A tiny greyling blossom there,_

_born far away from sky and air,_

_not so proud and not so fair_

_as other treasures of our mine, _

_and lacking gold and mithril's shine,_

_were you yet a gift divine? _

_Little stranger, born from stone_

_and scorning light 'mid earth and bone,_

_you bloom for Durin's folk alone. _

Frodo applauded him, and Thorin favored them with one of his rare smiles.

"I like it," he said simply. "I think it captures the spirit of the original. You certainly do know our ways by now. If I could teach you our tongue, I'm sure you'd make quite the translator."

Bilbo laughed. "Well, it's not my fault you keep your songs to yourselves." In truth, he was not half the linguist that Thorin was. The dwarf might claim that he was no scholar, but Bilbo knew him to speak five or six languages quite fluently.

A few minutes later, Sam arrived to tend to the garden, and Frodo went outside to bother him while he worked. Bilbo approved of what seemed to be a growing friendship between the two boys. Sam might not be as socially appropriate a companion for Frodo as Merry Brandybuck was, but he possessed a far more calming influence.

"I've been meaning to ask you again about going to Erebor," Thorin said suddenly. "I intended to spend the winter here, but I'm beginning to fear that I should not remain away for so long."

"Well," said Bilbo, a bit discomfited, "As long as you don't leave before the Sackville-Baggins tea. I'd never forgive you, you know."

Thorin snorted. "I'll not desert you in your hour of need."

"Are you worried about Kíli?"

"I suppose I am. I do think he is ready for the responsibility, but it sits ill with me to leave for so long."

"But he's not still…" Bilbo couldn't think of a tactful way to put it. "He was doing a lot better by the time I left Erebor, but I was still afraid he'd never be the same."

"He won't be," said Thorin flatly. "But I don't think he's unhappy. He's not in thrall to his grief. You know, sometimes looking your boy reminds me of him a bit, at that age. As he used to be."

The comparison startled Bilbo, but then, he had only known Thorin's nephew as an adult.

"Do you think you can decide in the next few weeks whether you'll make the journey?" Thorin asked.

Bilbo did not want to tell him that he was already fairly sure what the answer must be.

"I'll do my best. Gandalf always did say it was impossible to get me to make up my mind about going anywhere."

* * *

On the sixth day after the battle, Gandalf had taken Bilbo from Thorin's bedside for a while to bring him down to the ruins of Dale, where Fíli had been lying in state. Many of the dead had already been buried, but the most important among the fallen warriors were being given a formal seventh day burial. As Thorin's heir, Fíli's ceremony would be the last of the day, and the most grand.

Fíli was clothed in white, and crowned with gold from the hoard. A fine old sword of Erebor lay by his side, and diamonds glittered from his fingers. His beard and hair had been unbraided and combed out. He looked every inch the prince, and not a thing like the cheerful lad Bilbo had known. He would rather have seen Fíli buried wearing his traveling gear and holding his fiddle. But that would not have been proper, by dwarvish standards.

Until he saw the body, the death had not seemed real to Bilbo. He had been too worried about Thorin to think much upon anything else. But now, he realized that Fíli was truly gone, and he wept freely for a moment before collecting himself. He did not have time to give way to his sadness. There would be time later to grieve.

"Are you ready to leave?" Gandalf asked.

"Yes, I should be getting back to Thorin. Balin is with him at the moment, but he has so much work to do. I'm really the only one who can be spared right now…"

"That's not what I mean, Bilbo," Gandalf said gently. "Are you ready to go back to the Shire? I intend to leave tomorrow, after Fíli has been set to sleep among his ancestors."

"I don't know," Bilbo stammered. "This is so sudden."

"I should have thought you would be eager to be on your way, return to your home. I know how much you miss it."

"I do," said Bilbo. "More than anything. But I gave Thorin my word that I would stay here, and I intend to stand by that."

"Your loyalty to the king who cast you out is commendable, but I don't see what use Thorin can have for you now."

Bilbo frowned.

"Perhaps he only wants to make sure I suffer as much as everyone else."

Gandalf shook his head. "I should prefer to see you safely back to the Shire."

"I will go back, Gandalf, but I can't go back now. Do you disapprove so much that I've thrown my lot in with the dwarves? After all, I wouldn't be here without you."

Gandalf ruffled his hair, a gesture that Bilbo would have found infuriating from anyone else among the Big Folk. But Gandalf was so very old, and Bilbo did feel much like a child in his presence. A particularly stubborn child, no doubt.

But he knew he would see the Shire again eventually. And when he got back to Bag End, he would sit himself down among his books and never, ever leave again, no matter what the temptation.

"I don't disapprove, my dear boy. I would just hate to see you come to further grief. That was never my plan for you." Suddenly, the wizard looked tired. "I would stay with you, if I could, but there is other work that I must do, and it is far away from here."

Bilbo nodded. "I should get back to Thorin now."

"Promise me you will think further upon this decision before tomorrow Bilbo. If you stay, it may be a good while before you see your home again."

"I will think about it," Bilbo promised. "But I don't expect my decision will change, whether it's a wise one or a foolish one."

"As to that," Gandalf said, with a smile, "Not even the Wise can always tell the difference in advance."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the attack of fake Khuzdul poetry! (and some rather bad English poetry as well, alas). I hope this chapter wasn't too disjointed! The pace of the story is starting to pick up and there are a lot of plot threads that need to be juggled. **

**Anyway, thank you for reading, and for all your wonderful reviews thus far! I really appreciate hearing your thoughts. **


	8. In Polite Society

Bilbo's decision to stay in Erebor had been so obvious to him that he had felt too busy and too sad to give its implications much thought until after Fíli's funeral. At that point, all of the casualties from the battle had been properly laid to rest in stone. There was still an air of sadness about the place, but some of the grim tension was beginning to be replaced by hopeful busyness.

Gandalf left soon after the ceremonies ended, and Bilbo no longer had an easy way home. He expected to see the wizard again eventually, but for the foreseeable future, he was going to be a lone hobbit among a vast number of large, violent, and thoroughly exasperating dwarves. That would have been strange enough, had he not also found himself in constant attendance upon their even more thoroughly exasperating king.

Although time and tribulations had brought him to consider himself one of Thorin's Company, Bilbo had from the beginning been Gandalf's creature. He had, after all, only joined the Company at Gandalf's instigation, and had served the wizard's purposes (whatever they were) as much as the dwarves'. Some of them mistrusted Gandalf more than others, but Thorin had certainly doubted his motives. He knew that he needed the wizard, and disliked the fact, as he disliked needing to put his trust in anything or anyone other than himself. But by staying in Erebor when Gandalf departed, Bilbo had effectively transferred his allegiance from the wizard to the King Under the Mountain. It was not a comfortable position to be in.

Bilbo had always respected Thorin, but he still wasn't sure that he _liked_ him very much. An uneasy sort of friendship had sprung up between them during the journey. Thorin had started to show more respect for Bilbo, and even, at rare moments, genuine affection. But most of the time he remained prickly, distant, and difficult, keeping his own counsel and refusing perfectly good advice. But despite his unpleasant personality and pigheaded obstinacy, he had a natural charisma and so many excellent qualities besides that Bilbo could not help but crave his approval. He had thought that in time, he and Thorin could come to a genuine understanding of and respect for each other's natures, if the dragon didn't roast them first.

Of course, that business with the Arkenstone had put an end to such fancies. How could he have been so stupid? He should have known that nothing would induce Thorin to compromise, even had he not been in the throes of gold-madness. Thorin clung to what he regarded as his own with single-minded ferocity. Obviously the kind of leader who led a party of thirteen to reclaim a lost kingdom from a dragon was not the kind of leader who made decisions out of cold, hard logic.

But Bilbo had now thrown his lot in with Thorin, for better or for worse. Some of his decision had in fact been motivated by pity, not that Thorin would welcome that from him or anyone. He saw in Thorin a man who had been crushed by the weight of his own responsibilities, both in body and in spirit. And yet, the spark of life in him remained undimmed. How could someone who had lived for so long and suffered so much continue to fight?

He still didn't know why Thorin wanted him in Erebor, but he supposed that in the last few days he had already proven his utility. Bilbo believed that his struggles had not been destined to end before he could enjoy the home he had been dreaming of since his youth. He could still be a great king, and Bilbo intended to stay and watch it happen. The adventure had not ended with the death of the Smaug, whatever Gandalf might think.

* * *

The day they were to take tea with the Sackville-Bagginses came far more quickly than Bilbo would have liked. He steeled himself for the occasion, still annoyed that Thorin had managed to undo years of careful avoidance in a moment of dwarvish bluster. Well, he had survived many such a gathering in his youth, before his deliberately cultivated reputation for eccentricity had cut down on the number of invitations he received.

Thorin donned his best tunic and what was, for the Shire, a completely inappropriate amount of jewelry. Bilbo argued him down to a single ring (a truly ostentatious diamond), a gold chain, and some mithril hair ornaments that would have made eyes pop in Erebor but whose worth was unlikely to be recognized in Hobbiton.

Just as they were due to leave, Frodo emerged from the garden covered in mud. He had probably been helping Sam Gamgee again, although Bilbo had observed that Sam never ended up half so grubby as Frodo. His young cousin had a wonderful ability to attract dirt. Bilbo tried to send him inside to clean up.

Frodo crossed his arms over his chest in a very tween-ish way.

"I don't need to clean up. I don't care what Lobelia Sackville-Baggins thinks of me anyway."

Bilbo turned a laugh into a cough.

"Well, that makes two of us, but I'd still recommend you go and change your clothes. Lobelia with go into hysterics if you try to sit on her furniture in that state, and I'd rather spare our ears."

They were only about fifteen minutes late. Thorin looked unusually contemplative as they approached the Sackville-Bagginses' large house on the outskirts of Hobbiton. It was long and sprawling, after the fashion of most hobbit-built dwellings. But rather than being round and cheerily painted, the door was crafted out of some dark, heavy wood that seemed to discourage visitors, especially those who might be selling something.

"I thought your folk all lived in holes," Thorin commented. "Or do these Sackville-Bagginses think themselves too elevated to dwell beneath the earth?" His tone of voice indicated that he had met some who held this attitude and he found it backward beyond belief.

Bilbo snorted. "Oh, they'd live in a hole if they could. But there aren't more than five or six hills in the whole Hobbiton area suited for a smial like mine, and they aren't easy to get a hold of. My father built Bag End with my mother's money, but the land was in the family for generations."

"So that's why they're so desperate for Bag End?" Frodo asked.

"Could be," Bilbo agreed. "I imagine it has more to do with the fact that they had practically moved in already when I got back from Erebor all those years ago."

"They _what?_" Thorin growled. Oh dear, Bilbo had never gotten around to filling him in on that old story.

And now was not the time, for there was Lobelia opening the front door to welcome them, if that was the appropriate word. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave them an irritated look.

"Thank you for the invitation," Bilbo choked out. "As you see, here we are."

"My pleasure," replied Lobelia, struggling to hide her sour expression for politeness' sake and failing miserably. Her chin acquired a combative set as she stared at Thorin. "I don't believe we have been properly introduced."

Bilbo did the honors.

"Thorin, this is my cousin-in-law Lobelia Sackville Baggins. Lobelia, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror." She didn't need to know the rest.

Even so, he wondered if he had overdone it when Lobelia replied,

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Oakenshield."

"It's a style," Bilbo corrected quickly, before Thorin could take offense. Both parties looked confused. "Oakenshield isn't a surname. His people don't use them."

"Oh?" Lobelia's tone made quite clear her opinion of any race so uncivilized as to fail to have surnames.

"Thrainson," Thorin cut in. "Thorin Thrainson will do." Bilbo gave him a grateful look for having been spared the necessity of attempting to explain naming conventions among Durin's folk. He was still nervous about how Thorin might react to the vast number of questions that were sure to be directed his way in the course of the afternoon. Patience and understanding had never been among his virtues, and Bilbo did not imagine that half a century of kingship had changed his ability to tolerate fools.

He had been quite curious to see what relatives and acquaintances Lobelia would manage to round up for tea at such short notice, for while the invitation a few days ago had clearly been quite spontaneous, he knew she couldn't stand to be in his company for long without a few cronies to act as a buffer.

She had indeed managed to assemble several guests, mostly the sort of people he would have expected. Her husband Otho was there, of course, and their son Lotho, a tween a few years older than Frodo. The rest were all female relatives: her sister-in-law Violet Bracegirdle, her niece Hilda, and Tansy Proudfoot, the wife of old Odo. Bilbo was amused to see that Dora Baggins, who was Frodo's paternal aunt, had been prevailed upon to attend. She and Lobelia didn't see eye to eye about a good many things, but Dora was an unabashedly nosy old spinster who could never turn down an invitation to something she would be able to gossip about later.

As soon as they seated themselves in the Sackville-Bagginses' front parlor, the questioning began. Bilbo would have found the sight of Thorin being interrogated by a horde of aggressive hobbit matrons more than a little laughable, had he not been worrying about an eventual explosion of dwarven wrath and the potentially destructive forms it might take.

He and Frodo exchanged looks that were a combination of amusement and desperation as Thorin accepted a cup of tea from Lobelia. He appeared to be quite fascinated by the workmanship of the delicate china with its pattern of blue and purple flowers. In his enormous, scarred hand, it looked like something from a doll's tea set.

Hilda Bracegirdle looked Thorin up and down, her eyes resting for a long time on his neatly trimmed beard and haughty expression, and even longer on the enormous diamond ring. Bilbo could read her thoughts—definitely not the kind of dwarf they usually saw passing through the Shire.

"What do you do, Mr. Thrainson?" asked her mother, Violet.

Thorin only blinked at her, clearly not taking her meaning. Frodo leaned over to his ear, and Bilbo heard him whisper, "She means, what do you do professionally?"

Thorin opened his mouth, and Bilbo intervened before he could come out with an answer like, "Kill miscreants," or "Order my subjects about."

"He's what you might call a man of property," Bilbo said. "His family owns several mines."

Thorin acknowledged this with a nod. "I suppose you could say I'm in resource management," he added dryly.

"Oh, how interesting," said Hilda. "We had heard you were a blacksmith."

"In my youth. The family business…ran into some difficulties."

Bilbo suppressed a snort, and had to hastily set down his teacup to avoid an accident. Perhaps, he thought, they were now done with the awkward questioning portion of the afternoon, and could move on to unnecessary discussions of the weather. Alas, it was not to be.

Dora Baggins came straight to the point, posing the question that all the ladies had clearly been itching to ask.

"Are you married, Mr. Thrainson?"

Thorin choked on his tea, turned beet red, and began to splutter helplessly. Bilbo resisted the urge to pound him on the back in a very undignified fashion, and enjoyed his discomfiture for a full ten seconds before attempting a rescue.

"That's a very personal question among dwarves, Cousin Dora, and not something they like to discuss in company. At least, not with outsiders like us."

It had taken Bilbo a long time and more than a few very awkward conversations to figure this out. He had noticed that Gloin talked about his son proudly, but had never mentioned his wife. Bilbo had assumed that she was dead, until he made an unfortunate comment about it and was corrected in his error. His attempts to ask the others whether they too were married had been rather disastrous. The younger dwarves and natives of the Ered Luin had reacted as if he were only being amusingly inappropriate, but the older members of the Company had been quite offended by his audacity.

He still wasn't sure why dwarves were so hesitant to discuss their family lives. He knew that their women were few, and he got the sense that they were both very private by nature and held in extremely high esteem by their men. He was fairly sure that Gloin was in fact the only married member of the Company, or at least the only one with offspring. Fíli and Kíli had mentioned their mother on occasion, speaking of her with reverence and not with great detail. But Bilbo had learned not to ask about dwarf women, and especially not about marriage. It was the only subject he had found that could send a fearsome dwarven warrior into a shocked silence.

Bilbo's female relatives were not so easily deterred as he had been.

"How peculiar," Lobelia said. "You mean, you don't tell people if you are married or not?"

"Not outsiders," Thorin said in his iciest tones, having recovered most of his composure.

"How about children, then?" asked Hilda, fascinated and completely undeterred. "Can you talk about those?"

"Well of course not," hissed Tansy Proudfoot, giving her a scornful look. "Because that would prove whether or not he was married, wouldn't it?"

This debate continued between them for some time. Under the table, Bilbo saw Frodo aim a kick at Lotho Sackville-Baggins, who seemed to have been pinching him.

This was going well.

Around them, the ladies continued to speculate on dwarvish customs, having abandoned their attempts to interrogate the obviously uncooperative Thorin. Otho, who had mostly remained silent thus far, waded into the fray.

"What I'd really like to know about is their inheritance laws," he said around a mouthful of cake, giving Bilbo a look so pointed it could have drawn blood. "I can't imagine that they allow people to cut out their rightful heirs and name whoever they want as a replacement."

Lotho let out a combination of a wail and a howl, sounding much younger than his twenty-four years. Apparently one of Frodo's blows had finally found its mark.

"Mother! Frodo kicked me!"

Lobelia looked at Frodo as if he was an insect that had somehow crawled into her house through a crack in the wall. Bilbo knew from experience that being on the receiving end of that look was highly uncomfortable.

"Clearly he should have stayed in Buckland, where his manners would have been more appropriate," she sniffed.

"Bilbo, you really should teach him how to behave before letting him out in company," agreed Tansy, ignoring the fact that her grandson Sancho, several years younger than Frodo, had just that week caused a ruckus at birthday party by switching around the labels on all the presents.

"There's really no excuse for marrying a Brandybuck, when there are so many good families right here in the Westfarthing," said Violet, who had at one point rather had her eye on Drogo Baggins. "They're all, well, a bit _wild._"

"Drogo never was the same after marrying that Primula," Dora agreed. She had always been annoyed at the amount of time her brother spent in Buckland, especially since he never answered her letters. And then he had dared to disgrace the family by doing something as unrespectable as drowning!

"Really, Bilbo," said Otho, "I know you've always indulged your whims, but I hope you'll reconsider the matter. There's more at stake than your private affairs. Do you really believe that an adoption can make this right? Blood is blood, after all."

Thorin rose in one swift motion, knocking the table askew. One of Lobelia's teacups, which had been perched perilously close to the edge, slipped off and hit the floor with a sad little crunch.

Bilbo grabbed his arm, knowing there was little he could do to restrain him if he got angrier.

"I'll ask that you keep to your own affairs, Otho, and let me keep to mine. Who I choose to name as my heir is my business."

"Do you really intend for a Brandybuck to become the head of the family?" Otho shot a nervous glance at Thorin, who was still looming over the table.

"Obviously," Bilbo snapped. "And now, I think we'll take our leave." He stood up, put a hand on a dazed-looking Frodo's shoulder, and steered him out of the house. Thorin trailed behind, looking menacing enough to ward off any objections to their departure. None were forthcoming.

Once they were safely out the door and down the road, Frodo actually started to giggle.

"Are you quite all right?" Bilbo asked anxiously. He hadn't thought it was very funny.

Frodo wiped his eyes.

"It's only, you know how sometimes you go into situations thinking it can't possibly turn out as badly as you imagine? And then somehow it turns out even worse?"

"Frodo, my boy, when you're as old as me, I think you'll find your imagination quite up to the task of picturing how bad tea with the Sackville-Bagginses can be. Although by the time you're my age, I do hope they'll be long gone, even that wretched child of theirs." He turned to Thorin. "And please, don't go accepting any more invitations from my relatives without my express permission. You see how it turns out."

"I won't," Thorin said darkly. "In fact, I would much prefer that you not accept any further invitations while I'm here. I'd rather not have innocent blood on my hands."

"Oh, I don't think Lobelia is terribly innocent. But I appreciate the sentiment. I promise not to accept a single invitation. Right now, I feel about ready to barricade myself in Bag End for the rest of the week."

Thorin nodded his agreement. Frodo tugged at his sleeve.

"Thorin? If you don't mind me asking, did you ever want to get married and have children?"

Bilbo stiffened. "Frodo, I told you that's not polite."

Thorin looked down at the boy curiously, but did not seem to be angry.

"No, I didn't. And then my nephews were born, and so I didn't have to."

Frodo nodded, seeming satisfied by this answer.

* * *

After the trials and tribulations of the afternoon, Bilbo was far too exhausted to cook anything. He extracted some bread and cheese from the pantry, along with a lot of wine, and they all sprawled out on the floor of the sitting room for a picnic. His joints protested a bit at the position—another sign he wasn't as young as he looked—but he felt delightfully delinquent, as well as (after they got through the first bottle of wine) more than a bit tipsy. Home was really the best place for him, right here in Bag End, where he would never have to deal with anyone who annoyed him ever again.

They were just breaking into the third bottle of wine, and Bilbo was wondering blearily if he should have let Frodo drink quite so much, when there was a knock on the door.

"Don't answer it," he said. "Don't answer the door ever again. Maybe they'll go away."

But there was another knock, and then another in quick succession.

"What if it's an emergency?" Frodo asked. He brushed some crumbs off his lap and took another long drink from his glass.

They heard a muffled shout from outside.

"I know you're in there, I can see the light!" It was a young voice, definitely not Lobelia. Maybe it would be safe to answer after all.

"I think that's Merry's voice," Frodo exclaimed, and raced away to answer the door. His gait was more than a bit wobbly, but at least he didn't crash into any of the walls. He returned a minute later with Merry at his unsteady heels, his face bright and flushed, partly from excitement at seeing his friend and partly from the wine."

"Well hello!" Merry said, giving them all a cheeky grin. "What a very festive bunch you seem to be tonight." He plopped down on the floor and accepted a glass from Bilbo. "I'm delighted to see you all looking so well. As it happens, I've just come over from Buckland to deliver an invitation!"

* * *

**A/N: And that went about as well as predicted! Thank you all for reading, and for all your reviews :) I love hearing your thoughts. **

**And for those of you wondering whether Bilbo will decide to go to Erebor, that should be fully revealed within the next few chapters, if all goes as intended. I'm definitely not trying to string you guys along forever-I have a very specific plan for this story!**


	9. Interlude: Meanwhile, Under the Mountain

**A/N: So, this started out as a small interlude that turned into a bigger ****interlude as I wrote. More notes at the end, but just so you know, this is not intended to be quite a full chapter (more of a teaser), and we will be back to Bilbo, Thorin, Frodo, and Merry soon!**

* * *

**Interlude: Meanwhile, Under the Mountain**

Balin found that as the years passed, he needed less and less sleep. He often rose in the early hours of the morning, and wandered around Erebor in solitude. He liked solitude. It allowed him to imagine that he was back in the home he remembered from his youth. Once he had thought that living in the new Erebor would gradually erase the pain he experienced from his memories of the old one. Instead, the opposite seemed to be true. The past was growing ever more vivid in his aging brain, until it seemed that at any moment he might run into Thrain pacing in a corridor muttering about the defenses, or his father Fundin bellowing that little Dwalin had got into the treasury again and would Balin _please _come remove him from underneath that pile of gold. Out of all the city, the throne room was one of the places that had been least damaged by Smaug, and was thus the least altered from his memories. Often, this was where he found himself on his morning rambles, before the bustle of the day's business caught up with him.

He was getting used to the sight of an empty throne. Thorin had been gone for some months now, and Kíli preferred to hold court from his usual seat to the side. He claimed it was out of respect for his absent uncle. Balin couldn't fault him for that—Thorin's boots were big enough that Kíli might never be able to fill them. But Kíli was becoming a competent ruler in his own right, and things had gone smoothly these past few months. Thorin had named Balin as a co-regent in his absence, but he suspected it was less out of necessity and more an attempt to keep him occupied.

He studied the carvings on the walls, some of which had been left unfinished since Thror's day. Thorin had decided that structural work was more important, along with the operation of the mines, and that further decoration would have to wait until the next generation. Over the last fifty years, large parts of the city had been entirely restored, some had been redesigned, and new mines had been discovered. Thorin was a relentless improver, completely lacking in nostalgia. He would rather bend every fiber of his being to create the best city possible than try to recreate what had been lost.

Balin never would have thought that Thorin would end up being the practical one. But then, like the rest of his comrades, he had never really expected to reclaim this city. And if he had imagined what it would be like should they by some chance succeed in their mad quest, he had probably envisioned his childhood home brought to life once more. But that place was gone forever now. Few yet lived who he had known in those days. Many had been lost to the dragon, many more at Azanulzibar. Others had settled in the Iron Hills, and while they and their descendants were returning in droves to Erebor, their language and customs had altered, and they were not the same people he had known.

He was beginning to realize that he was part of a lost generation. Thror's Wanderers, they had been called, the mad, loyal ones who followed their aging king into exile rather than choose a life in the Iron Hills. They had never thought that by making this choice, by refusing to accept that the world they knew was dead, they were sacrificing their future generations.

But aside from Dís, there had been no unmarried women of Durin's folk among their number. Very few of the Wanderers who had been unwed at the fall of Erebor had taken wives. Children had not just been scarce, they had been miraculous. So many lines had ended with his generation, including his own family's. And he knew that Thorin silently mourned that Kíli looked to be the last of the Elder Line of Durin.

Balin should have known that they could never go back to Erebor. More and more, his thoughts turned to Thror in his last days. In his youth, Thror had made Erebor glorious. But in his old age, he had wanted to build a new home, more splendid even than what they had lost. Had it been such a bad idea?

He had only dared to mention Moria once to Thorin. Thorin had absolutely forbidden him to go. But they both knew that if Balin chose to pick up his sword and walk out the front gates of Erebor, no one could stop him. And so, Thorin tried to convince him that he was still needed here.

"You're up early," said a voice. Balin turned, startled back to the present.

It was young Thorin Stonehelm, the only son of Dain. A few years younger than Kíli, he had a long beard that hung in a single plait down to his waist. His brown hair was curly and forever springing free of its braids to hang wildly about his good-natured face, which was marred by an angry red scar running from the crown of his head to the bridge of his nose. Helm (as he had become known, to avoid confusion with the King Under the Mountain) was primarily responsible for communications and coordination between the Iron Hills and the Lonely Mountain. Balin suspected he used this position as an excuse to spend a lot of time hanging about Erebor and out from his father's watchful eye. He was unusually even-tempered for a dwarf, enduring the sometimes chilly reception he received in Erebor with remarkable good cheer. Balin himself liked Helm, and what was more, was relieved that while he and Kíli were not especially close, they did not appear fated to continue Dain and Thorin's often tempestuous relationship.

"What are you doing here?" Balin asked. "Isn't it time for your morning bloodbath?"

Helm might not look as warlike as some of his relatives, but in his case, looks were deceptive. He was a true berserker, such as had not been seen among Durin's folk in several generations—all for the best, in Balin's opinion. His personal preference was to fight alongside warriors who didn't go insensible and start foaming at the mouth when they got excited, and who might reasonably be deterred by little inconveniences like a mace to the head. One of Balin's least favorite sights in the world was Gimli and Helm having at each other with axes before breakfast, with Dwalin cheering them on from the sidelines. Still, Helm was a useful fellow to have on your side in a fight, if you knew how to keep him pointed towards the enemy.

"Gimli's busy," Helm said. "Kíli wanted him for something. I guess I could go see if Dwalin is up for a spar."

"No," said Balin firmly. "That's going to get too messy. Do you remember how many people it took to separate you two last time? I refuse to let Thorin come back to find his relatives all missing bits and pieces."

Helm grinned. "And that's why Thorin appointed you babysitter-in-chief, I'm sure." He punched Balin in the shoulder affectionately. Balin winced.

"Someone has to be sensible," Balin said. "Since it appears it's not going to be any of you lot, it will have to be me. As usual."

"I think Kíli's a lot more sensible than you are," Helm said. "He generally lets everyone do whatever they want, as long as they do their own clean-up."

"Yes, well," Balin said. "He's the product of a misspent youth himself, so he probably doesn't feel it's fair to judge others."

"And you never caused trouble yourself?"

"Hmm, well, I must have at some point. Mostly I seem to remember chasing around after Thorin and Dwalin while they came up with new and creative ways to self-destruct."

Helm stood beside him in momentary contemplation of the throne room. Something seemed to catch his eye, and he pointed to a spot in the wall above the throne.

"Isn't that where the Arkenstone used to be?"

"In Thror's day. It was truly a sight to behold." Balin closed his aging eyes, letting his memory show him an image of the throne room that had been and the king he had lost so many years ago.

"So what happened to it?"

"Hmm? Oh, the Arkenstone? Thorin had it in his possession after we retook Erebor, but he's never said what he did with it, and unless he chooses to give up that secret at some point, I don't think we'll ever know."

Helm elbowed him. "You must have a guess."

Balin did indeed have a guess, but it was entirely his own. Thorin had never even hinted at it. And if he was right, even speculating with Helm about it could cause problems.

Thankfully, he was spared from making a reply, because at that moment there was a yell and a red-haired blur came barreling around the corner. It appeared to be Gimli. Unfortunately, he had picked up too much momentum in his sprint to slow down before an inevitable collision occured. Balin and Helm braced themselves, and pushed back as he crashed into them, preventing everyone from going down in a clanking heap.

Gimli stood there panting, too out of breath to speak. His face was flushed with excitement or some other strong emotion. Balin felt a surge of dread.

"In Durin's name, what's the matter? Speak up?" He grabbed Gimil by the shoulders and shook him hard.

Gimli stared at him mutely, held out his right hand, which was clenched tight in a fist, and uncurled his fingers. When Helm saw what he was holding, he took an involuntary step forward and let out a low whistle.

"So it's actually happening."

Gimli turned on him, his powers of speech miraculously restored by a burst of temper.

"Not a word! If you breath a word of this to anyone, I'll–" He trailed off, unable to think of a sufficiently dire threat.

Helm looked wounded. "I can keep a secret."

"Gimli has a point," Balin said. "Helm, if anyone finds out about this before the news reaches Thorin, _especially your father_, heads are going to roll. Namely, ours." In Erebor, this was not a metaphorical threat.

The thought of an enraged Thorin chasing him around Erebor with Orcrist at the ready was apparently enough to make Helm experience at least a small dose of terror. He threw up his hands.

"Oh, all right! I swear on Durin's beard and my father's axe that I will keep this a secret until Thorin gets back. Whenever that is."

"Can we throw him down a mine shaft for a few months to make sure?" growled Gimli. Helm was not his favorite person.

Balin gave them both his sternest look.

"I trust that won't be necessary. I'll find a way to keep him occupied. Aren't you two supposed to be practicing swordsmanship along with Kíli while Thorin is away?"

A look of horror spread over the faces of the two younger dwarves.

"I'm supposed to be taking this off to the forge after I talk to you!" Gimli waved the object in his hand at Balin desperately.

"Balin, you know that's a terrible idea," Helm said at the same time.

Balin silenced their objections with a raised hand.

"All right, all right. Obviously we need to get in touch with Thorin as soon as we can. This matter can't be dealt with until he's back, and he said that wouldn't be until late spring at the earliest. But maybe if we can reach him soon enough, he can make it back before the worst of the snow hits. Gimli, did Kíli tell you how we should get a message to him?"

Gimli looked sheepish. "Kíli's asleep. I think he might be in shock. And when he wakes up and remembers what's going on, I have the feeling he's going to drink a lot of ale and go back to sleep again."

"In that case, lad, you're in charge. Go tell your uncle Oin to send out two ravens with a message. One directly to Thorin in the Shire, and another to Radagast the Brown in Mirkwood."

"That crazy fellow? Why?"

Balin sighed. "I know he's unreliable, but trust me, sometimes wizards know how to get things done in a pinch."

Once Thorin heard the news, he was going to come racing back to Erebor like someone had lit a fire under his boots. Balin just hoped he wouldn't be too reckless about it. While they did need him back as quickly as possible, it would be no good to anyone if he got himself killed en route. The roads had been getting increasingly dangerous these past few years.

Balin had on occasion dreamed of living out his later years in peace and quiet (when he wasn't dreaming about leading expeditions to Moria), but he strongly suspected that he had been cursed to live in interesting times.

* * *

**A/N: **

******Timeline note: I had to make my messiest age decision so far here-Balin is older than Thorin, who is roughly the same age as Dwalin. This is not what Tolkien wrote in the appendices of Lord of the Rings, but it's basically consistent with how the characters are portrayed in the movie. **

**I really didn't intend for Thorin Stonehelm (aka "Helm") to do more than cameo in this entire story, but then I got curious about the character, since Tolkien doesn't give us anything other than his name. And I'm pretty sure he's the only canonical dwarf we have who is about the same age as Gimli and Kíli, so why waste a good thing? **

**Since there was a king of Rohan named Helm, and the languages of Dale and Rohan are supposed to be related, I figured the nickname wasn't totally ridiculous, and might be less confusing than writing about two Thorins. ****Anyway, I hope you guys liked him!**

**Other than that, I hope you enjoyed this little break from the Shire and are pleasantly wondering about things to come.**


	10. A Little Trip

**A/N: Thank you all for patiently waiting for this update! After that interlude, we are now back to our favorite trio.**

* * *

Bilbo had completely forgotten that his cousin Rory Brandybuck was due to celebrate his birthday that very Sunday. Merry did not have just one invitation to his grandfather's party, but a whole bag of them. They were hand-addressed by his father Saradoc on creamy embossed paper with gold ink, and Merry had taken charge of personally delivering them throughout the Shire.

The Master of Buckland's birthday was traditionally celebrated with great fanfare, not just with a party thrown by the family for friends, relatives, associates, and hangers on, but by a festival in the village of Bucklebury that went into the next week and caused hangovers that lasted even longer.

Merry, who looked exhilarated rather than exhausted by several days of dashing about with invitations, informed them that this year was going to be particularly magnificent, as a large contingent of Took relations had promised to attend. Bilbo winced. When the Tooks and the Brandybucks met in large numbers, the resulting parties tended to be especially memorable. Bilbo did not feel up to attending such a party at the moment.

He looked over at the bottles of wine that he, Frodo, and Thorin had emptied, and then back at Merry, a little blearily.

"I'm afraid we won't be able to attend this year," Bilbo said. "Next time around, I promise I'll be there."

"If you're worried about Thorin, I've an invitation for him as well," Merry said, handing over. Thorin slipped open the envelope with a finger and examined it with some interest, apparently fascinated by the calligraphy in gold ink.

" Iss' not that," Bilbo said. He tried to fold his arms over his chest, and missed. "We've decided not to accept any invitations ever again."

"Maybe we can make an exception for Uncle Rory," Frodo said quietly. "I think we should go. I know the Sackville-Bagginses are dreadful, but Brandy Hall isn't like that at all."

"Absolutely not," Bilbo said. "No more relatives. None. I'm staying inside Bag End for the next year at least." It occurred to him that Frodo might be eager to see his Brandybuck and Took cousins, who he had spent so much of his childhood with. "You can go if you like. Thorin and I are staying here."

Merry and Frodo exchanged a hesitant look. Then Merry said,

"Can we go into your study for a minute, Cousin Bilbo? I need to ask your advice about something."

"About what?" Bilbo grumbled, not wanting to get up. At that moment, he was finding the floor very comfortable.

Merry floundered.

"A book?" he hazarded, clearly unsure what Bilbo actually kept in his study. "No, I know—a map! Yes, that's it exactly."

Reluctantly, Bilbo got to his feet. Or rather, Thorin seized him by the arms and hoisted him up into a standing position. The wine seemed to have rather gone to his head, and the room spun about a few times before settling. A little unsteadily, he followed Merry out of the room.

* * *

Frodo was also feeling slightly drunk. Bilbo's wine was potent stuff, and Thorin had generously refilled his glass several times before he had noticed that hobbits lacked the alcohol tolerance of dwarves and placed the bottle out of reach.

Thorin himself, either due to his dwarven constitution or just his greater bulk, did not even look tipsy. However, the normally rigid line of his jaw had relaxed slightly, and his eyes had softened from their usual piercing stare to a more gentle contemplation of his surroundings.

Emboldened both by this and his own inebriated state, Frodo blurted out something he had been thinking about for several days.

"Can I go visit Erebor with you?"

Thorin instantly snapped back into alertness, his spine stiffening. Frodo flinched.

"I just thought I'd really like to see it," he said. "You know, the mountain and the gold, and everything…"

"Did Bilbo talk to you about going, then?" Thorin asked. "I thought he had decided not to, since you never mentioned it and neither did he. Although he told me he would give me an answer soon."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Frodo said. He and Thorin stared at each other in confusion for a moment.

"Nothing," Thorin said curtly, shaking his head. "Forget it." He reached over for the bottle of wine, and poured Frodo another generous helping.

But as Frodo's wine-soaked brain began to work through the implications of what Thorin had actually said, he realized a trip to Erebor must have been discussed—was still being discussed—between him and Bilbo.

Bilbo just hadn't told Frodo about it.

* * *

Merry handed Bilbo a cup of cold water, and then hopped up onto the edge of his desk.

"Listen," he said, ignoring the stack of papers he was crumpling. "You really need to come for Granddad's birthday."

"I told you," Bilbo said, shaking his head to try to clear some of the fog. "I'm not going anywhere. The Sackville-Bagginses, you know?"

Merry made a face. "You aren't comparing us Brandybucks to the dreaded Sackville-Bagginses, are you?"

"Of course not," Bilbo protested. "I just don't feel up to facing a crowd right now. I need a few months to recover from Lobelia. Or at least another week." He took a long drink of water. "I told you already," he repeated. "Frodo is quite free to go without me."

"He shouldn't though," Merry said. "Go without you, I mean."

"And why is that? I hardly think he needs my supervision to travel to Brandy Hall."

Merry leaned forward. "His parents," he said simply.

Bilbo could have slapped himself, he felt such a fool. Drogo and Primula Baggins had been staying at Brandy Hall during Rory's birthday festivities just over a decade ago. They had, for some reason, decided to take a boat out on the Brandywine that chilly night in November. Then, the boat had somehow been overturned and they had drowned.

For the next few years, Rory had celebrated his birthday in a much more subdued fashion, but natural hobbit cheer had eventually won out over melancholy. Frodo could hardly forget the anniversary, however, even if he had been a little boy at the time. He had never mentioned his parents to Bilbo, not even once, but that very omission must mean that he was not as unaffected by their deaths as he seemed.

"Of course," Bilbo said. "I'll go with him. Thorin will probably come along too, although he may grumble."

A fine guardian he was, forgetting such an occasion. Truly, he was unsuited to the role. And Frodo was at such an awkward age, just a year away from being a tween. The adoption had been a sudden decision, as well. Perhaps he should have waited until Frodo was of age. Such an old fool he was, to be so caught up in his own loneliness that he had dragged a boy away from his home and the people he knew best without really thinking through how it might change their lives. And now here he was forgetting about Frodo's parents, and inflicting the Sackville-Bagginses on him, and contemplating leaving him behind for a trip to Erebor.

He had clearly not been meant to be a parent. He supposed they would all just have to muddle through as best they could.

* * *

The four of them set out the next morning, once Merry had delivered the remainder of his invitations in Hobbiton. They made good time to Buckland, traveling on foot and then by pony and cart. Even the weather cooperated, until the evening of the second day, when the sky turned grey and began to produce a sad, lazy drizzle. Thorin's limp worsened in the rain and cooler autumn weather, but he moved along quickly enough in spite of that, his stride being naturally much longer than a hobbit's.

At the last stage of the journey, they took Bucklebury Ferry across the Brandywine. The ferry was usually left unattended, but a young hobbit from the village had been conscripted to transport birthday guests back and forth across the river. This cheerful fellow chattered away as he rowed, telling them which families had arrived and which were still expected. Bilbo mostly ignored him, distracted by increasing concern for Frodo's well being.

The water was rough and choppy in the rain, and Frodo had turned as white as a sheet as soon as the ferry pushed away from the bank. It was at that point that Bilbo realized how quiet and withdrawn he had been for the duration of the trip. He was usually such an easy-going, talkative lad when among friends that his silence was surprising, and if Bilbo had not been so lost in his own thought, he would have noticed it sooner. He had expected Frodo to be happier about going back to Buckland, where he had spent so much of his childhood. Perhaps he was thinking about his parents. Hopefully he had not been upset by Bilbo's initial reluctance to make the trip. Bilbo still felt irresponsible for forgetting about the occasion.

Maybe Frodo just didn't like boats, a perfectly understandable sentiment given the circumstances. Bilbo put a hand on his shoulder, hoping to reassure him. Frodo stiffened under the touch, and it was quickly withdrawn. Color flooded back into his cheeks when they reached the other bank and stepped off the ferry. And he seemed to perk up as they made the short walk to Brandy Hall.

Bilbo had not been to Buckland in some time, and he always managed to forget how magnificent the Hall really was—only the Great Smials in Tuckborough could begin to compare. It occupied an entire enormous hill, and many of the surrounding hills had been tunneled and turned into separate little guesthouses. Construction had peaked in the days of old Gorbadoc, Rory's father, who had been a particularly enthusiastic host. Many of them now sat empty for most of the year. But by the end of today, they were all going to be stuffed with birthday guests.

Merry raced on inside through one of the front doors, and emerged again a moment later with his father Saradoc and his uncle Paladin Took. Following them was a stream of assorted relatives eager to see Bilbo (the older ones), Frodo (the younger ones), and the mysterious dwarf (everybody). Rory himself made an appearance once the general hubbub had settled, cutting a path through the throng of relatives to clasp Bilbo in a warm embrace. Then he moved on to Frodo, asking him how he liked living in Bag End and how he found Hobbiton.

"Tell me," Thorin said, leaning down to speak in Bilbo's ear. "How much older than you is Master Brandybuck? I confess I find it difficult to estimate the age of halflings."

"Rory?" Bilbo asked, startled. "Why, he's about a decade younger than me, I think. I still remember him as a little rascal who used to toddle after me whining because he hadn't been allowed to play with the older children."

Thorin's eyes narrowed. "You're older, you say?"

Bilbo looked back and forth between himself and his cousin. He supposed Thorin was right—Rory really did look older. A good deal older, in fact. His face would have been heavily lined had it not been so round, and he was starting to stoop a little. On the other hand, Bilbo had changed very little over the past decades, except that his hair had gradually faded out from brown to grey.

He shrugged.

"I'm well-preserved. Comes from the Tookish side of the family. And you're a fine one to talk. How are you? Over two hundred?"

Thorin grunted noncommittally. "Not young, but not decrepit yet either."

They watched with some amusement as Frodo and Merry were dragged off by a horde of younger cousins, all apparently desperate to show them some new toys they had been given in advance of Grandad Rory's birthday celebrations. Bilbo was relieved to see Frodo respond to their enthusiasm.

"So many children," Thorin marveled quietly. "There are more here right now than were borne in all our years in the Ered Luin. How do your folk get so many?"

Bilbo snorted. "The usual way, I expect."

Thorin gave him a severe look.

Really, dwarves could be such prudes.

* * *

Saradoc assigned Bilbo one of the separate guest-holes, a cozy little smial with two bedrooms and a sitting room. Bilbo suggested that Frodo might be more comfortable if he went and stayed in his old room in the Hall, but Frodo rather sulkily protested that he did not mind sleeping on the floor.

Once they had settled in, they decided to go visit the grave of Frodo's parents before the festivities began in earnest, knowing it might become increasingly difficult to slip away as even more relatives arrived.

Drogo and Primula Baggins were buried underneath a willow tree, a little distance from the river, a place they had been very fond of in life and had often walked out to when staying at Brandy Hall. Hobbits did not generally lay their dead to rest in graveyards or catacombs, as they were not a people that liked to dwell on past sorrows. Instead, they tended to choose peaceful spots where family members could come to remember their loved ones, and perhaps enjoy a picnic if the weather was good.

Frodo stood in front of the grave, like a solemn little statue, his hands tucked inside his pockets. His face was expressionless. Bilbo struggled to think of something to say that wouldn't sound trite. He had lost his parents as an adult, and had no idea what, if anything, to tell a boy who had hardly known his own.

Thorin bent over and plucked a pebble from the ground. This he set on top of the grave. Something behind Frodo's eyes flickered and came back to life.

"What's that for?" he asked.

"It's custom among my people to leave such an offering when visiting a grave," Thorin said. "In Erebor we often use precious gems, but any stone will do. Mahal made us out of stone, you see. And we place our dead in stone, so that at the end of days he can restore our spirits to our bodies and we can live once more."

Frodo nodded seriously.

"But my parents were hobbits," he said.

"That is true," Thorin agreed. "But we leave offerings so that Mahal will see that we value our dead. I'm sure he also wants to see us pay our respects to your parents."

Frodo rooted around in the dirt, until he came up with another pebble. This he placed on the grave next to Thorin's offering.

Bilbo stood a short distance back, and rubbed his empty palms together. He tended to avoid visiting graves if he could help it, and stayed far away from funerals. He hadn't come for Drogo and Primula's, nor that of any other family member that had died in the previous half-century.

Even now, just looking at this grave, he felt sick to his stomach. He remembered the terrible day of Fíli's funeral, how there had been five other young dwarves entombed in stone before him, none yet reached full adulthood. He remembered the chanting in Khuzdul that had echoed in his bones, so deep and terrible that he thought the mountain would tear itself asunder. He remembered the offerings of diamonds and emeralds laid at the grave, and how he felt ashamed he had not known to bring an offering of his own.

He remembered how Dwalin, standing in Thorin's stead, had lowered Fíli into the tomb. The scarred old warrior had been weeping openly, tears streaming down his face and splashing onto his beard.

He remembered Kíli's vacant stare as the tomb was closed, how he had shut himself off from the world so completely that he had seemed half-dead himself. He had refused to move or eat or sleep without being prompted, and had not heard or spoken a word as far as any of them could tell.

Bilbo had understood then that some wounds could not ever really be mended. Just as he understood now, deep in his bones, that he could not go back to Erebor. He could not risk Frodo on the Road. And even if they made it safely to the Lonely Mountain, it was not a place fit for a child of the gentle West.

As he looked at his young heir, he saw a boy who had known some loss in his few years, but who had yet to experience true suffering. Frodo had never seen the world outside the Shire. He was still an innocent.

Bilbo knew that he was not a very good guardian, but he would do what he could to keep Frodo safe from all kinds of harm for as long as it was in his power to do so.

* * *

He told Thorin of his decision later that night, when Frodo had gone off with his cousins again and they were alone in the guest-hole. He did not realize how agonized his face must look until Thorin laid an unexpectedly gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I cannot say I am surprised at your decision," Thorin said, after Bilbo had spoken all he had to say. "Although I wish it could be otherwise, I understand your reasons. Perhaps when the boy is older, things will be different."

Bilbo nodded, although they both knew that if Bilbo was not going to go to Erebor when Thorin was here to make the journey with him, he was hardly going to go by himself in another decade. He was getting old, even if it wasn't showing yet.

"Don't look so torn," Thorin ordered. "It was an invitation, and nothing more. Did I not say when you left Erebor that I released you from my service?"

Bilbo kneeled, as he had done at their parting so many years ago, and kissed Thorin's hand.

"That's not true," he said. "No matter what you said then, you will _always_ be my king. Always."

Thorin shook his head, and raised Bilbo up by the arm.

"You are my friend," he said. "And my burglar, I suppose." The corner of his mouth quirked upwards into the tiniest of smiles. "But I will never be your liege. You know you are far too stubborn to obey anyone properly, in any case."

Bilbo's jaw dropped in outrage.

"I? Stubborn? Now if that isn't the pot calling the kettle–"

Thorin ignored him.

Suddenly, all of Bilbo's feigned anger melted away, along with a host of sorrows and regrets and painful memories. In that moment, he only felt a yearning for adventure, powerful enough to sweep him out of his door and onto the Road in an instant if he had been a younger, more carefree hobbit.

"Thorin, you know if circumstances were otherwise I would go back with you in an instant, and confound the dangers!" He was so caught up in his own storm of words and emotion that he did not hear the door creak open. "If I had only known you were coming, I would have managed things differently. I wouldn't have brought the boy to live with me, I would have–"

A muffled exhalation from behind them caused Thorin's head to jerk up and swing in the direction of the door. Bilbo turned along with him.

Frodo stood just outside the threshold, his eyes wide and wild like a startled animal. Without saying a word, he spun around and fled into the night.

* * *

Frodo's heart was thudding so painfully that he thought it might leap right out of his chest. All he knew was that he had to get away, as far from everyone as possible. He was angry with all of them. And so he ran as fast as he could. The ground was growing slippery in the rain, and his bare feet skidded dangerously as he charged along. Several times he fell, but he just picked himself up again and kept running, without paying any more attention to where he was going.

He had never asked Bilbo not to go to Erebor. He wanted to go to Erebor himself! And yet Bilbo had decided, without even asking him, that they should not go. Without ever intending to, he had become a burden once again. All of his life, he had been nothing more than an inconvenience, an afterthought, passed along from relative to relative but not really wanted by any of them.

Soon he found himself running along a trail above the river, heading down towards his parents' grave. He started to slow down. He was getting wet and cold, and this began to cool his anger. He was going to have to go back at some point. He did not have to go back to Bilbo, though. If he asked, Uncle Rory would probably let him come back to Brandy Hall. Merry and the others would be delighted to have him back. His friends were the only ones he could really trust.

Settling upon this plan, he turned around abruptly and started to jog back the way he had come. But within a few paces, one of his feet snagged on a root, and he went flying. It was just bad luck that the grass where he landed was slick with rain. His feet went out from under him, and he rolled sideways off the path, bouncing over more stones and roots.

Then, there was nothing but air beneath him as he plummeted down towards the Brandywine River.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Sorry (or not?) for the almost literal cliffhanger. I'll try to get the next update out more quickly so you aren't stuck hanging for too long.**

**I indulged myself a bit here with regards to dwarf and hobbit customs, but I tried not to get so caught up in it that it would kill the pace of the story. Way more headcanon to come later, if you like that sort of thing!**


	11. Water and Fire

When Frodo bolted out the door, Thorin reacted on instinct. Bilbo just stood there sputtering, horrified at what Frodo had overheard and at his flight. Thorin was already over the threshold and off in pursuit of the boy. It was no use waiting to decide whether following him was a good idea or not. If he did not pursue immediately, it would be too late, and they would never find him. He had seen the look on Frodo's face, and boys at that age did not make good decisions when in distress. He was going to get himself in some kind of trouble.

He was not at all surprised when Frodo headed for the river trail. In the dark and in the rain, it was a risky place to wander at night. Thorin's eyes were slow to adjust to the darkness, and his bad leg throbbed in protest when he slipped on a patch of grass. Frodo was barely visible on the path ahead, a silent little blur in the night.

Suddenly, he saw Frodo slow down, hesitate, and turn around to jog back up the path. He prepared to duck out of sight and let the boy make his own way home without interfering. Apparently he had been wrong about the dangers of the situation, and Frodo had only needed to let out some energy. Hobbits were more sure-footed than dwarves, perhaps the trail did not pose much of a danger to them, even in such poor conditions.

Then, when Frodo was about a hundred feet away, he stumbled, fell, and rolled all the way off the trail toward the river. Thorin heard a distant splash, and a muffled cry.

He launched himself down the path at a sprint, ignoring the howling protest from his leg, and dove off the trail at the same point where Frodo had gone over.

The impact knocked the breath out of him, from the temperature alone. The Baranduin in November was as cold as death. He gasped for air, and flailed about, restoring some feeling to his arms and legs.

Durin's folk were not natural swimmers, being too dense and bulky to float well, but Thorin had grown up near Esgaroth and the Long Lake, and knew how to handle himself in the water. What he lacked in buoyancy, he could make up for in strength.

He would die before admitting it, but upon hitting the water he had a moment of fervent gratitude that Bilbo had insisted he wear flimsy leather boots and go (mostly) unarmed about the Shire. Had he been wearing his own iron boots, or his usual arsenal of concealed weaponry, he would have sunk like a stone. And had he stopped to divest himself of those things, it might have been too late.

Too late! He splashed and thrashed his way through the water, searching for some sign of the boy. The water was rough and choppy, but he could see no sign of a little hobbit. He was starting to tire, the limited range of motion of his left arm increasing the strain on the rest of his body.

"Frodo!" he tried to shout, but it came out as more of a rasp, his voice apparently too frozen to make much sound.

"Here!" came a thin cry from a few feet away, and then a splutter. Thorin headed in the direction of the sound, and saw a curly little head bobbing up and down, desperately trying to keep afloat. The boy definitely could not swim. Just as Thorin reached him, he sank completely beneath the water, leaving only a faint trail of bubbles to mark his location.

Thorin dove, his arms sweeping desperately in a wide arc searching for Frodo. His hands closed on something solid—a wrist-and he yanked up, bringing them both back above the surface.

Frodo was struggling desperately, his arms and legs flailing. After he kicked Thorin in the jaw in his panic, Thorin shook him roughly.

"Hang on to me," he ordered.

Frodo obeyed, sticking to his side like a burr, and they began to make their way over to the shore. The bank was steep and slippery, and it took Thorin several attempts to get them out of the freezing water. Finally, he gave a powerful kick and flung Frodo onto the bank. The momentum caused him to sink beneath the water for a second and he got an unexpected nose-full of river. His legs were getting tired of treading water. Choking, he hauled himself out of the water and lay there for a moment, spluttering.

Frodo had perched himself on the bank, and wrapped his arms tightly around his knees. He was sniffling.

"I'm sorry," he sniveled, as Thorin hoisted himself off his stomach and into a sitting position.

"What for?" Thorin said, remembering one memorable childhood incident involving Dwalin, a fishing rod, and a stolen boat that turned out to have a leak. "You aren't the only one who has ever needed to be hauled out of the water after an accident. Or do you mean you are sorry for running off like a fool? Because that does merit an apology."

"I'm not sorry for _that," _Frodo hissed, through chattering teeth. "You heard what Bilbo said. He said he wished he hadn't adopted me. He doesn't want me!" Thorin had to admit a grudging admiration for a child that could nearly drown and still be full of so much fire.

"I heard Bilbo tell me that he could not come to Erebor because he could not leave you and would not risk your life on the Road. Does that sound like someone who doesn't want you?"

"He could have asked me! I would have told him I wanted to go. I'm not a baby. What right does he have to tell me it's too dangerous?"

"You can't have it both ways, boy. You can't want him to care for you, and then get angry when he makes decisions for your own safety."

Frodo shook his head, still furious. Water sprinkled everywhere.

"Life can be dangerous in the Shire too! My parents drowned in this river. I would have too, just now, if you hadn't been there. And Bilbo would have felt a fool for trying to keep me safe then, wouldn't he? It would have served him right!"

Thorin was well tempted to slap the boy for his foolish insolence, but hesitated to do it so soon after such a fright. He thought back to his own childhood misadventures. Thror would have thrashed him, and then sentenced him to perform some unpleasant and labor-intensive task in the forges.

And then, his heart wrenching painfully, he thought of Dís with her hands on her hips, shouting as her boys fled from certain retribution. "Get back here you little monsters! Thorin, go after them! Make them pay!" But by the time Thorin caught them, her anger had usually been spent, and her remonstrations had been gentle.

"You have not seen the world," Thorin told Frodo. "You do not understand what Bilbo is trying to protect you from. Perhaps you are right, and you are too old to be thus protected. Even so, I cannot fault him for it. I once took boys, older than you, into danger."

"Your nephews?" Frodo asked in a small voice.

Thorin nodded, shivering. His lips were starting to feel numb, and speaking was difficult.

"I judged them ready," he said. "And perhaps they were, but they and many others suffered. I lost one of them. If I could make that decision over again, I would have chosen differently. I would have given anything to protect him."

"Bilbo was there, and saw some terrible things. And so while I would hope I could convey both of you safely to Erebor, I'm not going to press the issue. Bilbo has the knowledge and the right to make his own decisions, and I have too much respect for that to try and force his hand."

Frodo was silent. Thorin was not sure if his argument had persuaded, or if the boy had merely been chilled into submission. He himself was starting to feel drowsy. His body wanted to go to sleep, and his mind was growing equally sluggish. They should start moving. If he collapsed down here, it was going to take a lot of little hobbits to haul his body back to Brandy Hall.

"I'm sorry," Frodo said at last. "About your nephew. And thank you for pulling me out of the water. I really would have drowned."

"That much was apparent," Thorin said. "Be more careful around the river, if you don't intend to learn to swim." He staggered to his feet and offered Frodo a hand up. Frodo was too shocky and cold to walk, and his legs immediately went out from under him. Thorin swung him up onto his shoulders, and made his way carefully over the riverbank and up onto the path.

Frodo was so light that his weight was barely even noticeable. It was nearly a century since Thorin had carried a child. It was not something he had expected he would ever do again. It was very strange to him, how many children there were in the Shire. And so many of them were girl-children! Even the small number of children being born in Erebor sometimes seemed a shock to him, after all those years in the Ered Luin with almost no children at all. In Erebor, an orphan like Frodo would not have grown up thinking himself of little value, nor would he have been lost among a herd of cousins. He would have been brought up properly.

Bilbo met them at the top of the trail. He was carrying a torch and wearing a cloak against the rain, apparently just coming out to look for them. His worried expression lifted immediately when he caught sight of them, and then descended again as he took in their bedraggled states.

Thorin was again painfully reminded of Dís. How many times had he dragged home an errant child to be met by just that expression? The look on her face, saying "I knew you would bring him back, but for goodness' sake, did you have to take so long?"

* * *

Thorin stumbled, and Frodo quickly swung down from his back. His legs felt a lot stronger now, and he wasn't shivering so much. The rain had stopped, and he was starting to dry off.

Thorin, however, was a lot bigger, and had a lot more hair and clothing. He was still soaked through. His teeth were chattering audibly, although he was trying to hide it by clenching his jaw tightly. Frodo felt a flush of shame. It was his fault Thorin had gone into the river, and then he had made things worse by sitting around and arguing instead of insisting they go back right away.

"We had better get you two inside," was the first thing Bilbo said. Quickly appraising the situation, he led them to the nearby front doors of Brandy Hall, rather than to their own little guest-house. Scores of curious Brandybucks clustered around to see the strange sight—one wet young hobbit, one very wet dwarf, one dry older hobbit.

"Out of the way," Bilbo snapped, finally in his comfort zone. He brought them into one of the larger side parlors, where there was a roaring fire in the grate, ordered for blankets and hot tea to be brought immediately, and evicted everyone who wasn't making him or herself useful. Frodo plopped down on the floor by the fire, grateful for the warmth. Bilbo tossed him a blanket, and he curled up in it so that only his face was visible.

Thorin kicked off his ruined boots, which made a sad squelching noise, and tossed them into a corner.

"You'd better get that tunic off," Bilbo instructed. "I don't think it's going to dry any time soon."

Thorin fumbled with the laces on his tunic, and then tried to tug it off over his head. His left arm had apparently frozen up, and he let out a string of muttered curses, trying to extricate himself from the sodden garment. Bilbo stepped in to assist before he gave up in frustration and just tore the whole thing off. Thorin didn't have that much spare clothing, and it would be a waste.

Finally, through their combined efforts, he was free. He stood before the fire, his torso completely bare except for the part of his naked back covered by long, dripping hair.

Frodo held his breath for a moment. It wasn't Thorin's physique that startled him, even though he had never seen a body that was a mass of solid muscle—hobbits tended to be round and plump.

It was the scars that he found shocking.

A gentle soul might have described them by saying that Thorin looked like he had been cut into pieces and reassembled. A more blunt one would have said that looked as if he had been hacked apart and shoved back together by guesswork. The parts of him that weren't marred by angry, raised red scars or pale white lines were pitted and gouged. Some of the scars looked like they had come from cleaner cuts, but Frodo could have sworn that at least a few must have been bite wounds.

Frodo could not even imagine what it would take to make most of those marks on a living body, nor could he imagine what it had all looked like before it had healed. How was it even possible for someone to be that injured and still be alive?

A moment later, Thorin had pulled a blanket around himself, hiding the terrible sight from view. Frodo felt relieved, and then ashamed of being squeamish. . He knew that Thorin had been wounded in battle at some point, probably in the Battle of Five Armies, but he had never realized exactly what that meant.

And Bilbo had been there, hadn't he? Thorin had told him that Bilbo had seen terrible things in Erebor.

Bilbo really did have reasons to be afraid of taking Frodo out of the Shire. Until that moment, Frodo hadn't understood what fears he might have. But suddenly, he realized that as terrible as an accident like falling in the river might be, it was nothing compared to, well, whatever had happened to Thorin.

Frodo was a burden. But not because Bilbo didn't want him. He was a burden because Bilbo was afraid for him. And he supposed that in a way, Bilbo was a burden to him to, because the thought of something happening to Bilbo frightened him.

He hadn't really known, before tonight, what true fear was. The river had changed that. Death had always seemed like something that happened to other people. But as the water closed over his head, he had felt with utter certainty that he was going to die. He was still alive, but he knew now how easy it would be for any of them to cross the boundary between life and death.

* * *

There was a commotion at the door, and Merry burst in, followed by a handful of their other cousins. Berilac and Doderic Brandybuck were there, along with the Took girls and their baby brother Pippin, who had lately been trying to follow the older boys everywhere.

"Frodo!" Merry shouted. "Are you all right? I heard you took a tumble into the river." His exclamations were echoed by the others.

Frodo wondered how exactly the news had spread all over Buckland already, when he hadn't even told anyone what happened, and then realized that he had grown unaccustomed to living surrounded by vast numbers of gossipy relatives. At Brandy Hall, it usually felt like everyone knew what you were doing even before you had actually done it.

"I'm fine," he said, forcing lightness into his voice. "I was just being stupid. I was out on the trail in the dark. Thorin fished me out right away, though," he added, before Merry could ask whey they had been out by the river at night.

Merry let out a low whistle. "That's lucky for you. You know, if you'd actually managed to drown it really would have spoiled the party. The family never would have forgiven you."

Frodo grinned. Merry didn't mean it, of course, he was just trying to cheer him up. "Well, I'd hate to be an inconvenience and spoil everyone's digestion."

Pearl Took, who was twenty-two and considered herself very grown up, crossed her arms over her chest and gave Merry a severe look.

"I don't know how you can even joke about it!" she said. "Frodo really could have died. That river is dangerous!"

"Do you have to be so serious all the time?" snapped her sister Pimpernel. "Frodo's fine, he said so himself. There's no need to scold."

Pervinca, the youngest Took sister, grabbed Frodo's hand.

"They're about to start the dancing," she said.

"For everyone who isn't already too full to stand up," Berilac broke in.

Frodo glanced back at Bilbo, who waved him on.

"You might as well go enjoy yourself," he said. "It should warm you up, at any rate. Thorin and I are heading back to the guest-house. I've had enough excitement for one night."

Frodo allowed himself to be led out of the room by his cousins. In truth, he would have rather stayed with Bilbo and Thorin. He wasn't sure what to say to Bilbo, though. He wasn't angry any more, but he felt confused about everything.

These friends had been with him for as long as he could remember, and he loved them dearly. They had been the only constant in his childhood. But after a few months in Bag End, he was starting to feel like an outsider here. If he told them about Thorin's scars, or his dreams of a faraway mountain, they would not understand. And so, there was now a part of him that he had to keep secret from Merry, Pearl, and the others.

But at least for that night, he would try to join in the dancing, feasting, and merriment, and be his old self for a while. He wasn't comfortable yet with the new one.

* * *

**A/N: Well, I wanted to update quickly this time so that Frodo wouldn't be stuck in the river for weeks and weeks.**

**I didn't plan on ever writing Thorin POV, but he surprised me. And he finally got to be a bit heroic, which he doesn't have a lot of chances to do in the Shire. **

**Thanks to all of you for faithfully reading and reviewing!**


	12. Turnings

Sam sat on a tall stool at the kitchen table, letting his legs dangle in the air. He was writing "Samwise Gamgee" over and over again on a scrap of paper with a quill and ink Mr. Bilbo had let him borrow for that purpose. Mr. Bilbo said that his reading was coming along well enough, but that his penmanship was going to be a problem if he didn't make an effort to improve it, seeing as he hadn't learned to so much as hold a pen properly until he was almost a tween. So Sam was doing his best to improve it, and he had to admit that his name was starting to look quite fine, much more confident and firmly lettered than it had just a week previous.

When he was satisfied with that, he tried writing other people's names too, to add some variety to the exercise. He wrote "Frodo", and "Bilbo", and then, feeling rather daring, "Thorin Oakenshield".

He'd been very sorry to miss his lesson with Frodo that morning. Bilbo had been teaching them together three mornings a week, and Frodo had been awfully patient with him, despite the fact that he was miles ahead of Sam in most areas of book learning. Frodo was kind like that, not at all what Sam would have expected from one of those wild boys from the Hall, as everyone called them in Hobbiton.

Although Sam had to admit, he had been pretty patient himself, letting Frodo help him in the garden despite his total lack of sense when it came to plants. Frodo would get distracted and prune some poor bush or shrub to bits if Sam didn't watch him closely. Luckily Mr. Bilbo didn't share his lack of garden-sense, or there wouldn't be anything left at Bag End to tend to.

They had only been gone a couple days, and only to Buckland (although Sam had never been so far as Buckland himself), but life was a lot more boring when Bag End was empty. He didn't usually feel impatient with his work, but now he was restless even when up to his elbows in dirt, something that usually made him feel peaceful. He and his Gaffer had finished planting bulbs that week, and were almost done harvesting the last of the late-growing turnips, so there wasn't much work left to be done that autumn anyway.

There was a rap at the door, not too loud, but firm and insistent.

"I'll get it," called his sister Marigold, dropping her sewing.

"Stay where you are," said their Gaffer. "Something's funny here, and it's getting late too. I'll get the door."

Sam didn't think they were likely to be getting much trouble at Number 3, Bagshot Row, but he realized that the Gaffer was right. There _was_ something funny about the knock. It had the hollow sound of wood striking wood, rather than a fist, and it was too high up on the door. He shook his head in appreciation. Not much slipped past his Gaffer.

Sam and Marigold stood behind him as he warily opened the door. At first, they seemed to be met by nothing but a vast expanse of grey cloth. All three Gamgees stood frozen with confusion.

"Good evening," said an old man's voice, and the hobbits looked up. Why, it was one of the Big Folk! He was clothed all in grey robes, and had a long grey beard and a tall grey hat. He was a little stooped in the shoulders, and one of his hands gripped a sort of walking stick, which was probably what he had been using to knock on their door.

"Good evening," said the Gaffer cautiously. Big Folk never came into Hobbiton, leastways not that Sam could remember. "Can we help you?"

In response, the old man held up a weather-stained piece of a paper that Sam had posted to the front gate at Bag End the previous morning. In Bilbo's scrawl, it read:

_Please Deliver All Letters, Packages, Parcels etc. to Number 3, Bagshot Row, Until Further Notice. _

"Do you have a Letter, Package, or Parcel?" Sam asked. It seemed unlikely, somehow.

"You could say that," said the old man. "I'm looking for Mr. Baggins. Well, to be precise, I'm looking for someone who I have been led to believe should be with Mr. Baggins right now. And yet, I find that Bag End is completely deserted."

"Do you mean Mr. Thorin?" Sam blurted. The Gaffer was about to shush him, when the combination of their visitor and Bilbo and Thorin apparently clicked into place in his brain. He snapped his fingers.

"I know who you are! You're Gandalf!"

The old man looked quite pleased to be recognized.

"I have been known by that name, yes."

"I'm Ham Gamgee, the gardener. I seen you and him come back all those years ago, after he went missing. Not that you'd recognize me now, of course—I was hardy more than a lad then, and I'm getting a bit long in the tooth."

"Of course, of course." Gandalf peered around the room a bit vaguely. "And a fine family you have now, I see."

"Yes, sir," said the Gaffer. "These are my youngest two, Samwise and Marigold. I've four others, all out making their way in the world, as it were."

"They've gone over to Buckland for the Master's birthday," Sam said. "Mr. Bilbo and Thorin and Frodo, that is, not my brothers and sisters."

"And who is Frodo?"

"One of Mr. Bilbo's younger cousins, sir," said Sam. "He just came to live at Bag End last month, but he grew up in Buckland, and—"

Gandalf cut him off by raising a hand.

"Never mind that now. I had better start out for Buckland immediately. I can see already that Bilbo and I will have a great deal to discuss once I finally catch up with him. Thank you all for your information, I'm very much obliged."

"It's so awkward talking to the Big Folk," Marigold commented, when he had gone down the path and vanished into the night as if by magic. "My neck hurts."

Sam gave her a brotherly shove.

"Get back to your sewing."

He wondered why Gandalf was looking for Thorin. If the Gaffer recognized him as a friend of Mr. Bilbo, he was sure it was all right. But he had to admit that something about Thorin didn't make sense to him. He had always thought that Thorin didn't seem like any of the blacksmiths and tinkers and traveling merchants that he had glimpsed passing through the Shire. It wasn't just that he was taller and more dangerous-looking than other dwarves.

It was the way he behaved that was making Sam wonder. When he spoke, he clearly expected everyone around him to be quiet and listen, as if being in charge was as natural to him as breathing. He didn't have conversations with people, either, although sometimes Sam saw him direct a quiet comment to Bilbo. When he wanted to talk, he talked, and at length. When he didn't want to talk, he was silent, and nobody dared to bother him. Sam supposed this could all be described as arrogance, but Thorin didn't come off as arrogant, at least not in the way that some of the stuck-up Hobbiton folk Sam knew were arrogant. It was more like it never occurred to him that he couldn't do whatever he wanted. He was clearly used to always being the most important person in the room. Was that really the attitude of a former wandering blacksmith?

No, Sam was starting to think that something about Thorin did not add up.

* * *

Rory Brandybuck's pre-birthday-party party was in full swing. Most of the older hobbits were already too full to move. The younger ones, who had more energy and stronger stomachs, were dancing the night away to the accompaniment of a pair of lively fiddlers from Buckleberry. Frodo had to admit that part of him had missed the excitement and bustle of Brandy Hall, and always being surrounded by hordes of cousins for company. On the other hand, the general madness of the whole place meant that there was no privacy and most of the time it was too noisy to think. Maybe he should come back here for a while. It would certainly distract him from thinking about a lot of things.

The crowd of young hobbits finished the circle dance they were doing, and after a short pause the fiddlers struck up the tune to a popular couple dance. Frodo and Merry quickly headed for the refreshments before any of their girl-cousins could intercept them.

Unfortunately, Pearl Took was too quick for them. She blocked their path, folding her arms across her chest and tossing her curls so that her ribbons fluttered.

"Aren't you going to ask me to dance, Frodo?" she asked.

"No," Merry said. "He wasn't. Obviously. Go bother someone else."

Frodo expected Pearl to throw a fit—being the eldest of four had made her the bossy type. Instead, she went quiet, and she looked so crestfallen that he heard himself agreeing to dance with her.

"But just this one," he said. She grinned, and grabbed his hand.

"Wimp," Merry muttered, kicking him in the shin as he retreated.

The dance was fast, but uncomplicated. Frodo found his attention wandering. When he and Pearl spun in dizzying circles, he imagined the Brandywine closing over his head, and shuddered. If Thorin hadn't found him in time, he'd be dead by now. How long would it have taken for anyone to find him? Thorin must have seen him fall into the river. Which meant Thorin must have followed him directly when he had run off down the trail. Why would he do that?

Pearl was saying something.

"Hmm?" he said.

"I _said _that you seem a lot more grown-up since you went to Hobbiton," she repeated, somewhat irritably.

"Oh," he said, not sure how to respond. He wasn't _feeling _more grown-up tonight. "Thanks."

She leaned towards him.

"What you think of my new dress? Do you like it? I got it especially for the party."

Frodo glanced at it. It looked like most of the other dresses he had seen in his twenty-one years of life, although he had to admit he had never paid very much attention to dresses, or clothing of any kind.

"Sure," he said. "It's nice."

"You're impossible," she sniffed. Turning on one heel, she spun around and fled the hall.

Frodo stood there, mystified, until Merry came to rescue him.

"Told you that was a bad idea," he said. "Come on, I've got a bottle of wine stashed away in my room. Reggie and Berilac are up supposed to swipe some food and meet us there in a few minutes.

It was just like old times. Paladin Took and Saradoc Brandybuck, deep in conversation in a corner of the Great Hall, gave the two boys an amused look as they snuck out. Clearly, they knew exactly what was afoot, and were not of a mind to stop it.

Reginard and Berilac weren't there yet, and Frodo took the opportunity to tell Merry everything that had happened with Bilbo and Thorin that evening.

"So Bilbo wants to go to off on an adventure, but he can't, because you're living with him now?" Merry asked when Frodo had finished.

Frodo nodded.

"And you want to go too, but Bilbo thinks it's too dangerous?"

"He could be right," Frodo admitted. "I thought it was silly of him, at first, but then Thorin talked to me about it and I realized that I have no idea what is outside the Shire." He left out the part about seeing Thorin's scars. He was not sure Merry would understand that.

"You don't think you can talk them into it?"

Frodo shrugged. "Actually, I'm starting to think that I should tell Bilbo to go without me."

The thought had been growing in his mind all night, although he had only just now started to put it into words.

"Frodo, are you sure about this?"

"No," he admitted. "I have no idea. But I don't want Bilbo to feel like he can't go because of me. I don't want it to be my fault that he doesn't get to see Erebor again. I can tell he wants to. At least, I think he does."

"Well," Merry said, "We'll be glad to have you back here if you like. Farmer Maggot's crops were looking unusually untouched this last fall."

Frodo thought about the farmer's three huge and ferocious dogs, and shuddered. Maybe he wasn't fit to go adventuring. What if he ran into a warg, like the ones in Bilbo's stories?

Merry got tired of waiting for their other cousins to show up, and popped the cork out of his stolen bottle of wine. He took a long swig, and passed it to Frodo.

"I've been meaning to ask—why is it that everyone seems to think that Thorin is a blacksmith or something?"

* * *

Bilbo and Thorin had retired to the guesthouse, so that Thorin could change into a set of clothing that hadn't been soaked in river water and so that Bilbo could collapse after all the excitement.

Bilbo got the fire going, and they sat and smoked in silence for a while. Bilbo allowed his mind to wander. A lot still remained unsaid between him and Frodo, but everything had turned out all right for the time being. Was Frodo still angry? Was he? Was one or both of them owed an apology? He didn't know, and didn't want to think about it. He was confused and very, very tired. He had the strangest sense of floating up from his armchair, of being in some sort of trance.

"I'm staying," Thorin said.

Bilbo snapped back to alertness.

"Sorry?"

"I've decided to stay here for the winter after all." Thorin had that steely glint in his eye, a sure sign that saying anything to contradict him would lead to a savage argument, and that Thorin was probably already gearing up for the argument. There was no point in disagreeing with him when he was in this kind of mood, but then again, being too conciliatory would probably just goad him into starting an argument anyway.

"You know you're welcome to stay as long as you want," Bilbo said. "Did your little dip in the Brandywine increase the attractions of the Shire?"

Thorin winced.

"Hardly."

"I thought you were worried about leaving Kíli for the whole winter."

"Kíli will be fine. He is of age, and I have done my best to teach him what it means to be a ruler. He knows how to make good decisions. Now he needs to get used to the idea that it's his job to make them, and that will not happen while I'm in Erebor."

Bilbo nodded. He could well remember the desperate look on Kíli's face the first time Thorin ordered him to lead out a scouting party. "I'm not supposed to be doing this," he had said, looking panicked. "Fíli was always the one in charge. What if I do something wrong? What if I get them killed?" Bilbo had needed to practically shove him out the front gate.

Thorin blew out an enormous smoke ring, and then exhaled deeply.

"My nephews grew up in modest surroundings. When they were younger, it was hard enough to keep them fed and clothed. I taught them to hunt, and fight, and work a forge, but how could they learn to take pride in being lords of Durin's Line? They never knew Erebor in all its glory, or saw the walls of Moria, or held so much as a single diamond in all their lives."

"They still grew up to be a credit to you."

"I suppose." Thorin closed his eyes. "I think they were spoiled. The only children among Durin's Folk in exile, for so many years. I was gone so often. They should have had more discipline. My grandfather took a much firmer hand with us."

"Your grandfather?" Bilbo wondered what was causing this flood of reminiscence. Thorin rarely talked about the past, and never about his family.

"It was usual among us for the head of the family to take responsibility for children. Thror had much more to do with my upbringing than my own father did."

Bilbo could hardly remember his father's father, who had died when he was quite small, but he definitely remembered the Old Took.

"My grandfather was pretty odd," he offered. "He lived to a hundred and thirty, too. Gandalf was an old friend of his. Gave him a pair of magical cufflinks. Hmm, I do wonder what happened to them. Ferumbras must have them somewhere, I suppose. What was Thror like?"

Thorin considered this.

"Very powerful," he said. "Strong. Stubborn, you might say. As a youth he built Erebor up again from nothing, and after Smaug came he was ready to start again from nothing, despite his age. He was very proud—he would have died—did die—before taking shelter with his younger brother's people in the Iron Hills. He told me it was better to live off the labors of our own hands, however lowly the work, than to beg charity from our kin."

Bilbo thought this description sounded rather uncannily like Thorin himself, but declined to say so. Clearly the grandfather had brought up the grandson in his own image. It matched what he had heard from Balin, that Thror possessed a will so strong that entire generations of Durin's folk had molded themselves to it.

"Is it so strange?" Thorin asked, "That I would wish for a grandchild to carry on my line? To be born under my rule, to know his place among Durin's Folk, to know me as a king?"

"Maybe a little vain," Bilbo suggested. "But it doesn't sound strange to me to wish for a grandchild. Never thought of them myself, but I remember how Rory crowed when little Meriadoc was born." He inferred from this conversation that Thorin did not believe grandchildren were forthcoming. He wasn't about to ask directly though, as he expected it would embarrass him terribly. Dwarves were so strange when you asked them anything to do with marriage.

"I suppose I'm the one who has ended up with a child in my old age," he joked. And then, he really thought about Frodo. Frodo, who he, Bilbo, hadn't the slightest idea how to handle. Frodo, who Thorin had just chased through the pouring rain and pulled out of a freezing cold river.

And immediately after that, Thorin had decided not to leave the Shire.

"Wait just a minute," he said. "Are you staying here because of Kíli, or because of Frodo?"

Thorin met his gaze, unblinking, and did not answer.

"He's unlikely to grow up to be a king in Erebor," Bilbo said. "But I'm sure he'll be glad to have you here a while longer."

And maybe in the spring he could think about everything again. Maybe his head would be clearer, and he would be able to tell whether he dreaded seeing Erebor again or longed for it. Maybe he would be able to reconsider letting Frodo come along, if he could let Thorin convince him that the Road was not as dangerous as it had been fifty years ago.

He just needed a little more time.

* * *

**A/N: And we're back! And of course, now that everyone has thought things through and thinks they know what they are doing, Gandalf's arrival is imminent and probably eminently inconvenient as well. But I promise that next chapter there will finally be some answers to some things I know you have all been wondering about. ****  
**

**Also, writing pre-teen (well, "pre-tween") hobbits is just too entertaining. And Sam might just be turning into my absolute favorite POV. **

**Thanks for reading, and for waiting so patiently for this update! Expect more regular updates, at least for the next month or so.**

**Also, Athinana has done an incredible piece of "Stoneflower" inspired art, which I'm going to link on my profile. It's beautiful, and you should all check it out! I was so excited to see this.**


	13. Stormcrow

**Well, here it is: the one we've been moving towards for a long time! **

* * *

Frodo woke in the early hours of the morning. At first, he wasn't sure where he was. Then, he realized that he and a handful of other cousins had fallen asleep on the floor of Merry's bedroom. They had stayed up late eating, drinking, and carousing, until Saradoc had stuck his head through the door to tell them they were making so much noise that they were keeping half of the Hall awake and could probably be heard in Bucklebury. Frodo wasn't sure about that, as Saradoc and his wife Esmeralda slept just a few doors down.

But Saradoc had confiscated their last bottle of wine with a reproachful look at his son, telling Merry that he had better stop raiding the wine cellar because at the rate he was going it would be empty by the time he was Master of Buckland. Merry didn't look very concerned.

"Considering how much Grandfather Rory drinks, it won't even last until _you _are the Master," he retorted.

Saradoc suppressed a snort and gave them all the sternest look he could manage after an evening of extreme overindulgence. Strict parenting had never been very popular in Brandy Hall.

"Go to bed, lads, or I'll get Paladin in here to help me separate the lot of you." He pointed at Frodo. "You're the oldest, so make sure they stay quiet." Frodo just shrugged. He was the oldest, but no one had ever pointed it out to him before—maybe Pearl was right and he was looking more grown-up these days.

"So you're in charge, eh?" Merry said after Saradoc had closed the door on them. He grabbed Frodo by one pointy ear and twisted. Frodo kicked him in retaliation, and they wrestled for a minute before they realized that they were still far too full for that kind of activity.

And so the boys had sprawled out on the floor and gone to sleep. Frodo had been planning to sleep on the floor in the guesthouse where Thorin and Bilbo were staying anyway, and drifting off to the sound of his cousins' snores put him in an oddly nostalgic mood.

When he woke, the rest of them were still asleep, but he didn't feel comfortable there anymore. The decorative wood flooring of Merry's room felt a lot harder than it had the night before. He tiptoed over to the window, and peeked out. The sun was just barely started to rise. His stomach made a disgusted noise, protesting against the abuse he had subjected it to the night before. And that hadn't even been the real party—that was tonight. And tomorrow, the village of Bucklebury would be hosting its own celebration in honor of Uncle Rory.

He decided to go back to the guesthouse and see if Bilbo was awake. He wanted a chance to talk to him, maybe even tell him he should go to Erebor without him. That was the right thing to do, wasn't it? So why did it seem so hard? He knew that Bilbo thought it was too dangerous, and would never take him along, especially after he had acted like such a child about it. If only he had mentioned weeks ago that he wanted to go. But even then, he doubted that Bilbo would have agreed to let him go on such a journey.

After the rainy night, the grass was sparkling with dew under the warm morning sun. Suddenly, talking to Bilbo didn't seem nearly as appealing as stretching out underneath a tree and going back to sleep. So Frodo pulled off the jacket he had borrowed from Merry the night before and spread it over the ground. Then, he curled up on it and closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew, someone was shaking his shoulder. He blinked sleepily.

"Can you tell me where I could find Bilbo Baggins?"

The person trying to rouse him, Frodo realized, was not a hobbit, but one of the Big Folk, an old man with piercing eyes topped by very impressive grey eyebrows.

What a strange dream.

"Hmm?" he mumbled, not really awake.

The old man lifted him easily off the ground and set him on his feet.

"I'm sorry to wake you, lad, but better I interrupt you than rouse the entire Hall this early. Are you a Took, by any chance? You rather remind me of someone I once knew."

"My grandmother was Mirabella Took," he offered.

"Ah yes, she married into the Brandybucks, didn't she? And had a rather large number of children, if I remember correctly. I don't suppose she is still alive?"

Frodo shook his head.

"I never knew her." This was definitely a dream, because there was no way he was having a conversation about genealogy with one of the Big Folk. And yet, he thought something in the old man's eyes had softened.

"The years do pass by quickly," he mused. "But enough of this, I can see I'm distracting you from your nap. I'm looking for Bilbo Baggins. Do you know where he is?"

Frodo didn't wake up all the way until the old man had already vanished around the side of the hill. It was only then that he realized who he must have been talking to—Bilbo's descriptions had been quite perfect. If he had been awake and if they had been at home in Bag End, he probably would have recognized the wizard immediately.

But what was Gandalf doing in Buckland?

And then, a wonderful thought occurred to him. If Gandalf was here, something exciting must be happening. Perhaps he had not missed his chance for adventure after all.

* * *

Bilbo often thought that nothing in the world could really surprise him any longer, but he had to admit that he was quite startled when Gandalf knocked on the door before he had even finished his first breakfast.

"My dear Bilbo, I don't think you've aged a day since the last time I saw you," said the wizard, embracing him fondly and holding him at arm's length for inspection.

"Gandalf!" Bilbo exclaimed. In his excitement, the forty years since he had last seen the wizard seemed to vanish, and he felt almost young again. "But what are you doing here?"

Gandalf's keen eyes peered into Bilbo's so intently that Bilbo wondered what he was looking for there, and if he had found it.

"I wish I could say I had come only for the pleasure of your company," Gandalf said, "But the truth is that an errand brings me in search of your friend here." He nodded at Thorin, who stood scowling in the corner with his arms crossed and chin tilted defiantly upward.

Bilbo had always admired Thorin's lack of intimidation in the presence of anyone much larger than himself. Thorin might only be five feet tall, but in his mind, he was always the tallest person in the room.

"What business do you have with me?" he growled.

"There's no need to take that tone, Master Dwarf," Gandalf said, raising his eyebrows. "I'm here as a favor to you, and if I had not been passing through this part of the world and fancied the idea of a short trip to the Shire, I would not be doing it."

Thorin narrowed his eyes.

"Perhaps you should not have bothered."

Inwardly, Bilbo sighed. Thorin had never liked or trusted the wizard, and as far as he could tell, Gandalf had not seemed particularly fond of Thorin either. But Gandalf was much older and wiser than he was, and he knew there was probably nothing he could do to get them to like each other any better. They were both _his _friends, in very different ways, and he owed a great deal to both of them.

"Would anyone care for some tea?" he asked, rather desperately. Neither one of them seemed to hear him. He would just have to pretend not to notice when they sniped at each other.

From inside his robes, Gandalf removed a rather weather-beaten scrap of parchment, which Bilbo could see was marked with some sort of runes.

"I had this from Radagast the Brown," Gandalf said. "Or rather, from one of his birds. Apparently he received a rather urgent plea from Erebor, and seemed to think I would know what to do with it. Fortunately for you, I happened to be only a few days from the Shire when it reached me." He passed the message to Thorin, who took it gingerly.

"You may want to sit down before you read it," Gandalf advised.

Thorin ignored him, and carefully unfolded it.

"This is Balin's writing. Wait—you opened it?" He glared fiercely up at the wizard.

"Of course I did," Gandalf said. "How else would you expect me to know whether it was necessary to divert myself from all the other important things I was doing in order to deliver your mail. I am a wizard, your Majesty, not a postman."

But Thorin was no longer listening. Instead, he was staring at the letter. Slowly, he sank into a chair.

"What's the matter?" asked Bilbo. Thorin looked like someone had just given him a solid whack over the head with a shovel.

"Nothing," Thorin said mechanically, still appearing completely stunned. He looked back to Gandalf. "Is this some sort of joke?" He read the letter again, and then a third time. Then he sprang to his feet and began to pace around the room in agitation. "I should leave at once. Immediately. I have to go back to Erebor."

"Thorin, for goodness' sake—" Bilbo began.

"Don't ask," Thorin snapped, a dark flush rising in his cheeks. "I can't speak of it, not to an outsider."

"An outsider?" Bilbo exclaimed, a little offended. "Is that what I am now? And who was it who was offering me a place in Erebor just the other day?"

Thorin stiffened.

"Of course, and I stand by my word. But some things are not meant to be spoken of." He crumpled the parchment in one powerful fist.

"Thorin, be reasonable," Gandalf said. Bilbo winced. "Do you want me to tell him?"

"NO!" Thorin roared. "Bad enough that you should know what was meant to be private among Durin's Folk."

Bilbo raised both hands.

"Never mind," he said. "If you can't tell me, you can't tell me. Although I'm sure Frodo would appreciate an explanation for your abrupt departure."

Thorin took a deep breath, and let out an agonized sigh. His eyes were no longer blazing, but caught somewhere in between excitement and frustration.

"I should tell you," he said. "Kíli would want you to know." He looked over at Gandalf. "Leave us," he ordered. Bilbo winced again.

Gandalf raised an eyebrow, and departed with an expression that said that they were lucky he was in a patient mood that morning.

"I imagine you'll be wanting to return to Bag End this afternoon," he said as he exited. "I shall make the trip with you, as I am headed in that direction. And there are some other things I'd like to discuss with you, Bilbo."

When he was out of the room, Thorin relaxed slightly. Even so, it was clearly difficult for him to choke out even a few words of explanation.

"Kíli is to be married," he managed at last.

Whatever Bilbo was expecting, it hadn't been that. Thorin's reaction seemed more befitting a death in the family or a declaration of war. And yet, now that he thought about it, he could see that Thorin was not exactly upset by the letter, just surprised, and extremely uncomfortable talking about it with Bilbo and Gandalf. But he had often observed that dwarves treated that subject as one of utmost privacy. In that light, Thorin's behavior made perfect sense—he wanted to tell Bilbo, but he also apparently felt that discussing family matters with anyone who was not a dwarf was something bordering on obscene.

Bilbo suddenly felt a surge of appreciation for Thorin. He might be stubbornly traditional, and prickly about it as well, but when he felt it was the correct thing to do it seemed he was able to force himself to break with custom.

Having thought through all of this, the implications of what Thorin had actually said came crashing down on him and he flopped into a chair before his legs could finish turning into jelly.

"Oh," he said weakly. "Well, that's good, isn't it?"

Thorin's eyes were gleaming in a way that Bilbo had only previously observed when he was contemplating some magnificent piece of treasure.

"Of course it is," he said. "Do you realize what this means? I had resigned myself to watching the last days of my line, to knowing that Durin would never be born to my descendants."

His face softened, until he looked almost gentle.

"I only wish his mother and brother could be there to see it."

Bilbo touched his stoneflower pendant.

"I know."

* * *

After his brother's death, Kíli's depression had been so deep and lasted so long that Bilbo had feared for his mind. The cheerful, careless young dwarf that Bilbo had known had vanished into a silent, grim wraith that would not eat, sleep, or even move without being direction. Bilbo was not a complete stranger to tragedy, but he thought he had never witnessed grief that seemed so absolute and endless.

But when he asked Balin about it, all he got was a shrug.

"Grief takes some of us that way. Thrain was much the same when Thror died, and Dwalin got very odd for a while when we lost our father. Either Kíli will break free of it or he won't, but there's nothing we can do to help him that we haven't already done."

And slowly, gradually Kíli had seemed to emerge from the blackness that had engulfed him. He was not the same youth that they had known, but he was not mad. He had decided to live.

But as the weeks passed, no matter what anyone said to him, he refused to see Thorin. Bilbo could not tell if it was anger, or guilt, or a combination of the two that kept him away. Kíli would not so much as speak his uncle's name, and yet he listened attentively when other members of the Company discussed him. Bilbo wondered how long he could keep up this self-imposed familial exile. Probably forever, given what Bilbo had observed of the stubbornness of dwarves.

The letter came from the Blue Mountains just as winter was starting to set in. They had sent word from Erebor immediately after the battle, informing Durin's Folk in exile that the Lonely Mountain had been reclaimed, but had not expected to hear anything back before the spring. But one small caravan had managed to make it over the Misty Mountains before the snow had closed off the passes entirely.

Kíli looked the message blankly when Balin handed it to him.

"Mother's gone," he said, and walked away. He sounded tired, and so numb that for a dreadful moment Bilbo wondered if they would ever see him again, or if he would simply walk out the front gate of the mountain and keep on going.

Balin buried his face in his hands.

"Never say that things can't get any worse," he muttered, but he offered Bilbo no further explanation.

As some of the older members of the Company gathered that morning, Bilbo got the distinct impression that he was not welcome. This was not his grief. After all that they had shared in the past few months, it felt strange to be shut away from them in this way. He almost slipped on his magic ring, wanting to stay among them and not be observed, so that he would not feel so very far from home.

He did not do it. He had a little more pride than that.

But before he left, he saw Oin pass something tiny to Balin. It was one of the little grey flowers that Bilbo had observed in the catacombs weeks ago, and forgotten to ask anyone about. The little blossom had grown no larger, but its petals had lost their translucence, and glittered faintly, as if tiny veins of ore ran through them.

"A portent," Oin said. "Mahal's sign that one day we will be reunited with our dead."

Balin cupped it tenderly in his palm.

"A sign," he agreed.

If someone had broken the news to Thorin, Bilbo saw no sign of it that afternoon. But unlike the rest of his kin, Thorin seemed to grow stoic in the face of loss. If he grieved, it would be in the time and manner of his own choosing.

It had been several weeks since Thorin had even mentioned his surviving nephew, although at first he had asked after him often. Thorin had asked, and Kíli had not come, and so he had stopped asking. Fíli, he had not mentioned since the funeral, although his grief then had been obvious and profound.

He was dictating a list of instructions to Bilbo about the repairs that were underway on the road through Mirkwood, and Bilbo was dutifully scribbling away, when the door swung open.

"Thorin," said Kíli, and stood there completely motionless, staring at his uncle. Thorin appeared equally frozen in place.

For a moment, Bilbo saw Kíli as if he too had not seen him in weeks. He noticed as if for the first time the scrap of bandage over one eye, the pallor of his skin and the hollowness in his cheeks. He was terribly altered.

Then, Thorin extended a trembling hand, and Kíli went and knelt by his bedside.

"I'm sorry, Thorin," he choked. "It's all my fault. I failed you."

Thorin's hand came to rest on Kíli's head.

"You fool," Thorin whispered, his voice harsh. "Never say that." He pulled Kíli into a rough embrace. "I thought I had lost both of you. I thought I had lost both of my children."

As quietly as he could, Bilbo faded into the shadows and slipped away. He pretended that he had not seen tears glinting in Thorin's eyes, and that they were not at that moment streaming down his own cheeks.

* * *

"I must leave at once," Thorin said. "If I hurry, I may be able to make it over the mountains before winter."

"Are you afraid you'll miss the wedding?" Bilbo asked.

"Hardly," Thorin said. "I'm the head of the family. My presence is necessary. I've waited for this for thirty years, and I don't intend to wait another day longer than is necessary. They need me to return as quickly as possible, so that this opportunity does not slip away."

"I'm sorry you'll have to miss Rory's birthday party tonight, though, it was promising to be quite the spectacle."

"It will be nothing compared to the celebrations in Erebor," Thorin promised. He caught Bilbo's arm in a grip so firm and enthusiastic the hobbit feared he might snap like a twig. "You will come?" It was not really a question.

"Of course I will," Bilbo said. And at that moment all doubts had fled from his mind. It was not just happiness that made it an obvious decision, although he thought that he must be happy. He felt more driven by the need to see the completion of something, to close a wound that had never really healed.

He would return to Erebor, although he was afraid of what it might cost him. It seemed that adventure had not quite finished with him after all.

* * *

**A/N: It took me a long time to get to this chapter, but I hope it was worth it! So Bilbo is absolutely going to Erebor, and as for Frodo...we'll see ;-) **

** It should be obvious already from how I wrote this chapter, but I just wanted to add a little disclaimer in case any of you get nervous about this sort of thing: this is a plot-driven development, and I have no plans of writing any kind of romance, or featuring OCs in more than very minor roles. **

**There will definitely be excitement, adventure, some angsty feels, more flashbacks, and plenty of awesome hobbits and explorations of dwarf culture. And a little problem with that mysterious gold ring in Bilbo's pocket.**

**Thank you all for reading this far!**


	14. The Road Beckons

**I'm baaaack. Thank you all for waiting, and I'm so sorry for the delay! **

* * *

Merry, Frodo, Berilac, and Pearl were nibbling at a rather pathetic second breakfast in Saradoc's kitchen when Bilbo came looking for them. He looked a bit strange, Merry thought, almost a wild. His expression was serious, but his eyes were strangely alight. It made Merry nervous.

"We missed you last night!" he said, setting down the muffin he was buttering. "Frodo told us old Gandalf is here—is it because of Granddad Rory's birthday? Will there be fireworks?"

Bilbo chuckled, but there was no warmth in it.

"So Rory told you about those fireworks, did he? Alas, we no longer live in the time of the Old Took. I don't think Gandalf has made birthday visits in the Shire for a long time. Actually, he had a letter for Thorin."

He set a hand on Frodo's shoulder. Frodo's entire body stiffened, as if he was expecting some kind of blow.

"Thorin needs to leave immediately," Bilbo said. "He just got some important news from Erebor. And that means the three of us must return to Bag End right away. I'm sorry, I'm afraid we'll have to miss the party tonight."

Frodo pasted on a smile.

"That's all right. I think I did more than enough celebrating yesterday."

"Come over to the guest house after you've said good-bye to your friends."

After Bilbo went out, Frodo pushed his plate into the pile of dirty dishes, shook hands cautiously with Pearl, and thumped Berilac on the shoulder.

Then, he gave Merry a hug.

"I think Bilbo might be going to Erebor," he whispered. "And just doesn't want to tell me yet. So I expect I'll be back at the Hall in a few days. Don't let Uncle Rory give away my room."

Merry nodded, hating the disappointment in Frodo's eyes, but hoping that he was right.

He had always believed that Frodo was a Brandybuck in all but name. After all, he had lived in Buckland for most of his life, and his Baggins relations had made it plain that they wanted nothing to do with him. Frodo might be an orphan, but he had always been part of a large and boisterous family at Brandy Hall, and Merry had never seen him as being any different from the rest of the cousins. He might be a little older than the rest of them, and he did sometimes have strange, quiet moods. But he was still Merry's favorite cousin. Most of the time, he was adventurous and ready for anything, whether it was a daring mushroom raid on a nearby farm or a quick jaunt into the Old Forest. And despite being the oldest, he had never tried to bully his younger cousins or make himself their ringleader.

Merry had been horrified when his father had told him that Frodo was going to live in Hobbiton.

"He's one of us," he protested. "He's a Brandybuck through and through. He doesn't even like Hobbiton folk, even if he is fond of Bilbo."

"He's a Baggins too," was all Saradoc would say. "And if Bilbo wants to adopt him, much better for him that he should go. He'll inherit Bag End someday, and that's nothing to scoff at."

"Is the money that important? He must know we'd always look after him."

Saradoc patted his son's shoulder awkwardly.

"I'm sure he does. But if you were him, what would you prefer—to be master of Bag End, or to live here at the Hall forever as a guest? On _your_ charity, Meriadoc, for that's what it would be someday. I know you will miss him, but you must think of what is best for Frodo."

Merry wasn't convinced. Why should Bilbo have the power to sweep in and change all their lives? All he had ever done before was show up on holidays and the odd birthday with presents and stories, both of which had admittedly always been of the highest quality. But had he ever taken particular interest in Frodo before?

To Merry's shock, Frodo had not objected to joining Bilbo at Bag End.

"I think it could be interesting," was all he would say. "But you'll visit me often, won't you Merry?"

And Merry had done his best. But living in Hobbiton had changed Frodo. His adventurous side seemed to have quieted. He tried to get Merry to avoid trouble, or at least, tried to get Merry to avoid leading him into trouble as often. Instead of running and playing outside, he talked to Merry about Bilbo's stories of distant days and heroic deeds. And more and more often, he had those strange moments where his eyes grew distant and Merry knew he was thinking about something he would never reveal. It bothered him that Frodo was growing in some strange new direction, and, as it seemed to him, becoming increasingly like Bilbo, who everyone knew was odd. But Frodo did not seem unhappy, exactly. Merry had to admit that life at Bag End did seem to suit him.

And then Thorin had arrived. At first, Frodo had seemed so uncomfortable with the dwarf's presence in Bag End that Merry had hoped he would come running back to Brandy Hall. Instead, Thorin had started to fascinate him. And how could Merry compete for his friend's attention with someone like that? Thorin was a warrior-king from distant lands, a figure right out of Bilbo's stories. And although Shire-folk didn't care much for kings (it having been so long since they had bowed to one themselves) Merry had to admit that Thorin cut an impressive figure. But the world he was from was so different than the Shire, and clearly all Frodo could see was the excitement of it.

For the first time in his life, Merry felt afraid—afraid for Frodo. Frodo was his kin, his friend, his brother. What would happen to him if he went where Merry could no longer watch over him?

It would be much, much better for all of them if Frodo came home to Brandy Hall where he belonged.

* * *

They left Buckland within two hours of Gandalf's arrival, and riding in the wizard's cart, they made much faster progress than they had on foot. Thorin suggested that they camp for the night rather than worry about finding an inn, and this allowed them to travel until later in the evening than they would have ordinarily. Bilbo smiled to himself. They were still in the Shire, but he was starting to feel like they had already begun a new adventure.

When they finally stopped to rest, Frodo went with Thorin to collect some firewood, and Gandalf took their absence as an opportunity to corner Bilbo. For a few minutes they sat smoking their pipes in silence.

"Do you still have that ring of yours?" Gandalf asked, blowing out a smoke-ring. The question sounded casual, which made Bilbo think that it probably was not.

"Ring?" Bilbo asked, widening his eyes. "Which ring do you mean?" His right hand jerked involuntarily towards his waistcoat pocket. He let it drop, hoping Gandalf hadn't noticed.

Of course Gandalf had noticed. The wizard smiled slightly.

"I think you know which ring I mean."

"Ah," Bilbo said. "_That _ring." He cleared his throat. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do still have it."

"Do you always carry it with you?"

Bilbo shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "I suppose so. One never knows when something like that will come in handy."

"Even in the Shire?"

Bilbo flushed. "Well, there are still some times I'd rather not be seen. By Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, for example."

Gandalf chuckled. "Most wise. But still, would it be fair to say that you extremely attached to that ring of yours?"

"I suppose I am, if you must put it like that. It's gotten me out of a few tight spots in the past."

"And the creature you got it from, Gollum, was he similarly fond of it?"

"I suppose he might have been."

"And yet you somehow expect me to believe that he gave away such a priceless treasure because you bested him in a game of riddles?"

Bilbo looked away. He wished he had never told that story. It seemed more than a bit foolish now, and he knew how implausible it sounded. Was there any reason not to just tell Gandalf the real story of what had happened between him and Gollum beneath the Misty Mountains?

But it had all been so long ago. Why did Gandalf have to be so confounded curious about the ring? And why now, after so many years? Bilbo had been in possession of the thing for nearly half a century. It was his now, as much as it had ever been Gollum's. He had more right to it.

"There is no guile in you, Bilbo," Gandalf. "I know you don't mean any harm by it, but why won't you tell me the truth? It's not like you."

The gentleness in the wizard's voice made Bilbo's temper flare.

"I don't see how it's any business of yours!" he snapped. "I got it fairly, and that's all you need to know."

Gandalf did not say a word, but just kept looking at him, as if he could see straight into his heart. Bilbo's anger vanished as quickly as it had come. He felt close to tears.

"He would have killed me, Gandalf. He would have killed me if I hadn't taken it!"

Gandalf put a comforting arm around him, and Bilbo took a long, shuddering breath, trying to calm himself.

"It's mine," he muttered defiantly.

"I know," Gandalf said. "I know."

* * *

Gandalf left them as soon as they reached Bag End, before Bilbo had even had a chance to open the front door.

"I have a few other matters to attend to, but I expect to return in five days," he said. "Thorin, I shall see you to the edge of the Shire, at least." With that, he gave Bilbo a significant look, to let him know that he would have to talk to Frodo at some point.

"That's not necessary," Thorin growled. "We—I mean, I have no need of an escort. I can look after myself."

"Let me be the judge of whether it is necessary," Gandalf said. "I do not question your capability, but I have been on the Road more recently than you, and I have heard some strange tidings."

Frodo stared after him as his cart disappeared below the hill. His blue eyes were wide and solemn. Bilbo could not remember the last time he had spoken.

"You should not be so rude to Gandalf," Bilbo chided Thorin once they were all inside. "He's done you a kindness by bringing that letter. He didn't have to do it."

"If he has," Thorin snapped, "It's for reasons of his own, and not out of affection for me and mine."

Bilbo sighed. He couldn't actually argue with the truth of what Thorin was saying. Besides, it would take greater miracles than the ones he had witnessed in his lifetime to make Thorin and the wizard see eye to eye.

It was hard to return to Bag End knowing that he was about to leave it again so soon, and for what was likely to be an extended period of time. He really did love the place, and the rest of the Shire, too. There was a lot to be said for a quiet, decent way of living. But he had felt for a long time, ever since his adventures, that he would never feel truly, completely at home anywhere ever again. His heart was divided between too many places now, and no matter where he went, part of him would always wish he were somewhere else.

He had decided to go with Thorin, and that was that. It was undoubtedly the right decision, and he needed to pack quickly so that they could be on their way. Thorin was not going to be patient about delays. On the trip back from Buckland, he had seemed quite as distracted as Bilbo. He had often pulled out Balin's letter to read over again, although he had looked at the thing so many times that he must have had it memorized.

But if Bilbo started packing, Frodo would surely realize that he was planning to leave for Erebor. And that was what Bilbo was dreading, because he did not know how Frodo would take the news. He suspected that it would seem like an enormous betrayal. _He_ felt like it was a betrayal, a betrayal of all the responsibilities he had taken on by becoming Frodo's guardian. But he could not take the lad, who was barely more than a child, into the kind of danger they might face on the Road. Could he? No, it was unthinkable. But how could both his options feel so wrong?

Tormented by indecision, he wandered around Bag End making lists and bumping into furniture. He was so lost in thought that when he wandered into Thorin's room, he did not at first realize what Thorin was actually doing.

Thorin sat cross-legged on his bed surrounded by an enormous pile of weaponry, some of which Bilbo had seen in the last few weeks and some of which was unfamiliar. Where had he kept it all? Knives had been cleaned and sharpened, and a bow and quiver of arrows lay unwrapped next to a pair of small axes. Orcrist sat in a place of honor near the foot of the bed.

But Thorin was not inspecting his stockpile. Instead, he was doing something that Bilbo had never seen him do before—mending a tear in one of his tunics. Bilbo stopped and stared at him as he tied a knot and cut off the end of the thread with a nasty looking little dagger.

The sight of Thorin sewing while surrounded by what looked like half of Erebor's armory made Bilbo suppress a snort. Thorin looked up impatiently, needle poised.

"I didn't know you knew how to do that," Bilbo said.

Thorin raised an eyebrow.

"Sew? For almost a century I spent ten months of the year traveling. It's a necessary skill."

Bilbo, who sent his own mending out to a seamstress in Hobbiton, shrugged helplessly.

"I suppose there are a good many skills you have that I've never had occasion to witness." He sat down on the bed, shoving aside a few knives and a pile of clothing to make room. He picked up the tunic that Thorin had just mended. The stitches were not delicate, but were neat and evenly placed.

"That's true enough. I don't think you will ever see me dig a ditch or mend a wagon axle though." Bilbo could certainly not picture Thorin doing either.

"Somehow I didn't think you would do this sort of thing," he nodded at the tunic "Now that you're King Under the Mountain."

Thorin shrugged, setting down his needle on the bedside table.

"Honest work is never beneath anyone, or so Thror taught me. I've done jobs that shamed me. This isn't one of them."

Bilbo smiled. "I never realized you were such a moralizer." He took a deep breath. "I really need to ask your advice, Thorin."

Thorin raised an eyebrow.

"This is a first."

"I don't know what to do about Frodo," Bilbo admitted. "I can't just leave him here, but it seems awfully dangerous to take him along, don't you think?"

Thorin's eyes hardened, and a look of such profound pain passed over his face that Bilbo had to look away for a moment. He wanted to kick himself for what had just come out of his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I shouldn't have asked you that."

"I'm not the right person to ask," Thorin said. "I've asked myself the same questions so many times. Was I right to take my boys into such danger? They were almost adults. They wanted to come. I needed them. And yet, I thought it more than likely that the entire Company would perish. But I did not see it as my duty, or even as my right to protect them. How could I ask my comrades to accompany me on such a risky quest and then leave behind my heirs in safety? I will never know what the best decision would have been. I have to live with the one I made, just as you will have to live with yours. I can't tell you if keeping Frodo safe at all costs is the right choice."

"I know," Bilbo said. "I just wish there was some way to tell the future. Or change the past. Or both."

"I seem to recall we had a similar discussion before you left Erebor all those years ago."

"That's true." Bilbo smiled weakly. "I wish I could say I felt wiser now, but that would be a lie. I suppose some questions will always be unanswerable, won't they? I will never know what my life would have been like if I hadn't been swept out my front door by a wizard and a crowd of dwarves fifty years ago"

* * *

For a while, during the long winter, Bilbo had seriously considered staying in Erebor. The Shire felt so far away, and he couldn't imagine going back to that world after what he had seen and felt. He knew he would never really belong there again. And yet, as spring began to arrive, and true flowers bloomed around the Lonely Mountain, he started to long for Bag End again. They had survived the winter, Erebor was finally ready to be inhabited by more than a smattering of warriors and work crews. Soon, families would be arriving, first more groups from the Iron Hills, and then at last there would be caravans from the Ered Luin arriving through Mirkwood. The city would come to life again, and once it did, it would be a very strange place to be a hobbit.

And so, when Gandalf returned towards the end of the spring, Bilbo gratefully accepted the wizard's offer to take him home.

Thorin walked out to Dale with him. He could walk unaided now, although the limp was still severe. But he refused to let it slow him down, and Bilbo had to trot along beside him in order to keep up. By the time they got near the city, they both had to stop for a while to catch their breath. Thorin and Bilbo leaned against the stone wall of a long-destroyed house on the outskirts of Dale, and spent a few minutes looking at the city.

Balin had taken Bilbo out here a few weeks ago to look at the new work that was taking place now that spring had arrived. In truth, Balin had been more concerned with looking at the ruins of the old city, the one he remembered from his youth. But Bilbo was fascinated with the transformation that was taking place. It was as if a city was growing up from the ground along with the flowers. The Shire had very little large-scale construction of this sort, and tunneling was much less interesting to watch, although (in his opinion) infinitely more comfortable than living above ground.

Dale in its current form was a combination of tents, makeshift buildings, and the foundations of a more permanent city. How long would it take before it was finished? Bilbo would probably never see it. Maybe he could persuade someone to send him a sketch in a few years, so he would know how the building was coming along.

What did Thorin see when he looked at Dale? The ruins of a place he had once known well, or hope for a new future?

"Are you sure it's all right for me to leave?" Bilbo asked. "I know I promised I would stay as long as I was needed here."

"Consider yourself released from my service," Thorin said.

"That's not really an answer."

"The Company will be sorry to see you go, but you've more than earned your freedom. You have been dreaming of your Shire for months. You should go back."

"Come visit me," Bilbo said. It wasn't the first time he had made the invitation, but it was going to have to be the last. "Come see the Shire again some day. I've gotten to know your home rather well these past few months. You should see mine."

Thorin smiled. It was a rare expression, and hard to catch, but Bilbo was much better at reading his moods than he had once been. But then, as so often happened, the smile quickly vanished and was replaced by a darker look.

"If you could choose again, Bilbo, would you still choose to become our burglar? Would you still leave behind your home and your pocket-handkerchiefs and come to Erebor?"

It was a question Bilbo had pondered a great deal himself lately.

"I'm not sure how to answer that. I've seen more than enough adventure for one lifetime, I think, and I do want to go home. But I'm a very different hobbit than I was a year ago, and whether I've changed for better or for worse, I don't think I would willingly go back to being the person that I was."

"So you don't regret coming here?"

"I regret a lot of things, but not that." He kneeled, and clasped Thorin's hands. "If you ever need me in Erebor, for any reason, I promise I will come back. I don't know what use I'd be to you, but I'll come back."

* * *

Frodo stared the miniature axe that Thorin had mounted over the fireplace, and wondered if he could take it with him to Brandy Hall. It would be nice to have something to remember Thorin by, but maybe he could find something that wasn't so heavy. The axe's size was appropriate for a hobbit, but its weight was not, something that Bilbo's friends in Erebor had apparently not taken in to consideration when they made the thing. Maybe Thorin would give him one of his knives.

"Frodo!" Bilbo's voice echoed down the hallway. "Come into the kitchen, I need to talk to you about something."

They stood facing each other for a minute, neither wanting to be the first to speak. Frodo tried to steel himself for the blow he knew was coming. Bilbo was about to tell him that he had decided to go back to Erebor. And Frodo was determined to react as calmly and maturely as possible, even if he felt like something inside of him was shriveling up and dying.

"You know that Thorin has to go back to Erebor," Bilbo began.

Frodo nodded.

"Although you haven't told me why." He bit his lip. That had sounded sulky.

"It's a bit private, really," Bilbo said. "Thorin would have to tell you himself. But the point is, he's going. And he's asked me to go with him, which for various reasons, I feel I must do."

"I know that," Frodo said, staring at his toes.

Bilbo blinked at him.

"You know that?"

"I guessed."

"Oh, my, I hadn't realized that." Bilbo rubbed his hands together nervously. "Well, the thing is, Frodo, it doesn't really feel right to me to send you back to Brandy Hall. And Thorin tells me that you want to see Erebor for yourself."

Frodo nodded eagerly, lifting his eyes to meet Bilbo's gaze. This was not how he had imagined the conversation going at all.

"But it also doesn't seem right to take you into what could be a very dangerous situation. We may face many perils between here and Erebor. And Erebor itself is not nearly as safe as the Shire. Part of me thinks you are far too young to see so much of the world."

Frodo waited.

"The truth is, lad, I can't decide. And I'm not honestly sure I've earned the right to. You're young, but perhaps not too young to take your own risks. And you're certainly not too young to know your own mind. So what do you think, Frodo? Do you want to come to Erebor?"

Frodo closed his eyes, wishing he could block out the entire world before it overwhelmed him. His heart was thudding so loudly he thought it might push all of the way out of his chest and land on the floor. He had dreamed of this moment for so long, and now that it had arrived, he was frightened.

He bit back the torrent of words that threatened to spill out of his mouth in a cacophony of excited acceptance, and when he finally spoke, he surprised himself along with Bilbo.

"I know it might be dangerous," he said quietly. "But I think maybe I have to go. I think I was always meant to, somehow."

"Very well," Bilbo said. "In that case, we have a great deal of packing to do."

* * *

**End Part One**

_The Road goes ever on and on_

_Down from the door where it began._

_Now far ahead the Road has gone,_

_And I must follow, if I can,_

_Pursuing it with eager feet,_

_Until it joins some larger way_

_Where many paths and errands meet._

_And whither then? I cannot say._

* * *

**A/N: Well, here we are! The end of Part One, and Frodo's fate is finally decided. He's going to Erebor! Actually, I'm delighted that I made some of you doubt it :)**

**Thanks so much to all of you who read this far, and once again, I'm sorry for the wait. 50,000 words (almost) and eight months, and we are finally ready to leave the Shire for some adventures.**


	15. Samwise the Brave

**A/N: Welcome to Stoneflower part 2! I did change the summary a bit, just to try to better reflect where we are in the story, but definitely still the same fic, no other changes.**

**The adventure begins :) **

* * *

When Sam heard that Frodo and Mr. Bilbo had returned to Bag End several days ahead of schedule, he leapt up from the breakfast table without even clearing his plate and sprinted up the hill. But when he got to Bag End, he found the household in an uproar. They were in the middle of packing, and were planning on going away again almost immediately.

"We're going to Erebor with Thorin," Frodo informed him, his eyes dancing. "Isn't it incredible?"

"Where's Erebor, then?" Sam asked, feeling dazed. He didn't think it was anywhere in the Shire. Honestly, wasn't Buckland far enough for anyone to be traveling to? It was all the way on the other side of the Brandywine River.

"Oh, a long way away, to the east." Frodo waved an impatient hand. "The Lonely Mountain, you know? Where Bilbo went on his adventures all those years ago."

It sounded like an awfully long trip to Sam. But when he said so, Frodo only laughed.

"Yes, it will be. Bilbo thinks we'll be gone at least a year."

Sam's heart sank. It had been so dull for him these past few days, with Bilbo and Frodo in Buckland. What was he going to do if they were gone for a whole year? But Frodo seemed so happy, and it wasn't Sam's place to say anything so selfish. So instead, he helped Frodo sort through his clothing to find what looked the sturdiest for the trip. Frodo was too distracted to help much, but after half an hour, Sam had a neatly folded pile for him. Then, he went to help Mr. Bilbo in the pantry.

"Hello Sam!" Mr. Bilbo said, as soon as he went in. "Just the fellow I was hoping to see this morning."

"Frodo told me that you're going away," Sam said.

"Yes, precisely! I need someone to look after Bag End while I'm gone, and I thought I'd ask you and the Gaffer to take care of that for me. I don't want to come back and find that the Sackville-Bagginses have moved in during my absence."

Bilbo handed over the spare key, and Sam solemnly promised that so long as he held it, no Sackville-Bagginses would so much as darken the doorstep of Bag End.

"Good," said Bilbo. "That's settled, then. I'm very sorry our lessons will have to come to an end for the time being, but you are most welcome to come in whenever you would like and use my library."

This generous offer moved Sam nearly to tears, and he stammered out his thanks. He wasn't yet ready to read most of Mr. Bilbo's books, some of which were even in strange languages, but just looking through them made him feel that he was drawing close to marvelous things.

He fled the pantry, but didn't go home yet. He'd probably be put to work helping Ma and Marigold in the kitchen, and he didn't think he could face their chatter just now. Marigold was sixteen, three years younger than him, and that meant that she was pretty much always annoying.

So he sat by himself for a while outside Bag End, wrapping his arms around his knees. It was starting to get cold, he thought. It was going to be a long winter. It was going to be a long year, if Frodo and Mr. Bilbo really intended to be gone for that long. He didn't want to face it. He knew that once they were gone, his life would go back to being the way it always had. He liked his life a lot. But he liked it better when he got to spend time at Bag End.

"Sam?" someone asked. Frodo had stepped outside carrying two plates with slices of cake. He passed one to Sam. "This isn't going to last, so we'd better eat it up before we leave."

The cake, which Sam knew was delicious, felt dry in his mouth, and it was a challenge to chew and swallow it.

"I wish you could come too, Sam," Frodo said, putting down his plate. "I'm sure we'd have great adventures."

"Me, Mr. Frodo?" Sam laughed. "I'm the gardener's boy, I wasn't meant for adventures. The Shire is enough for me." To his own ears, he sounded insincere.

"I promise I'll bring you back something from Erebor. You probably wouldn't like it there anyway. Thorin says that nothing grows there at all."

"How is that even possible?"

Frodo shrugged. "The whole city is underground. Thousands and thousands of dwarves. They have all sorts of jewels and gold and silver, but not a single plant or anything."

"Hard to imagine living somewhere like that," Sam agreed. Then, he decided to ask something that had been bothering him for a long time. "Mr. Frodo, is Thorin really who he says he is?"

"What do you mean?"

But despite the innocent look in Frodo's blue eyes, Sam could tell he was hiding something. Frodo wasn't a very good liar.

"You don't have to tell me or nothing," he said. "But I've been thinking that he acts like he's somebody. Somebody important, I mean. And Mr. Bilbo kind of treats him like that too—leastways, as much as he treats anyone like that, if you know what I mean. And Gandalf brought a letter here for him, which I reckon he wouldn't do for just anyone."

"Can you keep a secret, Sam?"

"Cross my heart."

"You have to promise not to tell another living soul."

Sam nodded. Frodo leaned towards him.

"You know Erebor? The city I told you about? Thorin is the king of it."

Sam gave him a skeptical look.

"Are you pulling my leg, Mr. Frodo?"

"I swear I'm not. It's true."

Sam whistled. "Well, I see why Mr. Bilbo didn't want anybody to know about _that._"

"Bilbo just hates fuss, I think. I don't know how many people would have believed him anyway."

"So was it all just a story? What Thorin told me about being a blacksmith. Because he doesn't seem like a blacksmith, but he also doesn't…_not_, if you know what I mean."

"No, it's all true, I think. When Bilbo met him, he wasn't king of Erebor yet. He'd been a traveling blacksmith for a lot of years." Frodo told Sam about Smaug and the fall of Erebor and Dale, to the extent that he knew.

Sam just shook his head. It sounded like Thorin had a pretty hard life. It was one thing when Mr. Bilbo talked about his mysterious adventures, but another thing entirely thinking about what it would be like having a dragon descend on your home. He was just glad things like that didn't happen in the Shire.

He hoped Frodo wouldn't encounter any dragons, and wondered if he would be a very different person when he came back. Maybe he would have seen so many amazing things in Erebor that he wouldn't be interested in talking to Sam any more.

* * *

A few days later, Gandalf reappeared with his cart, and knocked on the bright green door of Bag End. Frodo and Bilbo started to load bundles of their things into the cart, and Sam helped with some of the heavier ones. Thorin paced around the cart, ignoring all of them and clearly impatient to be on his way. Bilbo gave Sam a string of instructions about looking after Bag End, for about the fourth time in the last three days. Then, he handed him a small pouch, which clinked as Sam closed his hand around it.

"For looking after the old place," Bilbo said. "Use it well."

Finally, they were ready. Everyone shook Sam's hand, even Thorin.

"Take care, young Master Gamgee," Gandalf said, peering deep into Sam's eyes. "I have the feeling we will meet again one day."

Then, Sam watched the cart disappear down the road. He ran after it a short ways, watching it get smaller and smaller in the distance, then turn into a cloud of dust, and then vanish entirely. After that, he headed back to Bag End to make sure everything had been left as Bilbo wanted and get the rest of the leftover cake out of the pantry.

He walked through the sitting room, and stopped to look at the axe above the fireplace. He liked to stop and look at that axe, because he'd never seen one like it before. All of the axes he had used had been made for cutting wood. But this axe was double headed, with two slightly smaller, wickedly curved blades that came to a point. It was an axe for fighting, and for cutting flesh. The blades were etched with strange, geometric designs, and the handle was inscribed with some sort of writing Sam could not read. It looked like some sort of runes, which Bilbo had showed him before, but had not taught him to understand. He remembered Thorin's story, about how he hadn't been able to read letters until he was an adult. So maybe Sam would learn to read runes some day, although he wasn't sure what good it would do him.

Now that Bag End was empty, he was able to do something he had always wanted to do. He dragged a chair over to the fireplace, hopped up on it, and took down the axe. It was heavy, and Sam nearly fell right off the chair when he picked it up. But he was a strong young hobbit, who spent a lot of his time digging, chopping wood, pushing wheelbarrows, and hauling heavy bags of soil. So his muscles strained, and he regained control of the axe before it made a dent in the floor. He got down from the chair, and gave it a tentative swing, careful not to damage any of Mr. Bilbo's property. Yes, the axe was heavy, but he could definitely wield it. It made him feel strong, and confident. Brave. Like a hero out of one of Bilbo and Thorin's stories.

He set the axe down on the chair, and opened the pouch Bilbo had given him. As he had suspected, it was full of silver. It might be pocket change for Bilbo, but it was more money than Sam had ever held in his life.

A little bit giddy with his newfound riches, he did something stupid. Or rather, a lot of somethings stupid. First, he wrapped the axe in a couple of big towels. He stuck it in a rucksack, along with a blanket and some food from the pantry that he had been meaning to take home anyway.

He borrowed paper and a quill from Bilbo's study and wrote a short note.

_Dear Ma and Dad,_

_ I'm sorry to be leeving like this but I think it is my only chance. I need to see what is outside of the Shire, and also I think Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo may be needing me later on. I would of told you myself only I thougt you would tell me don't go. I will try to be back soon. Here is the key to Bag End what Mr. Bilbo gave me, please look after it._

_ Your son,_

_ Samwise _

Sam frowned down at the note. His letter were untidy, and he was fairly sure he hadn't got all the words right. And his Gaffer was going to have to find someone who could read it to him. He sighed. It was the best he could do on short notice. At least his signature looked good. He locked the door to Bag End, folded the paper around the key, and slipped it under his own front door on his way down the road. Hopefully Marigold or his Gaffer would find it, but not soon enough to stop him from doing what he had decided to do.

Sam walked for a long time. He knew he would not be able to catch up with them very quickly, because they had a horse and cart, and he was on foot. He also did not want to catch up with them too quickly, because then they might send him back home. But Frodo had told him that Gandalf only intended to travel with them until they left the Shire, so after that they would also be on foot.

The best thing would be if he caught up with them right outside the borders of the Shire. It would be too far from Hobbiton to send him back by then, wouldn't it?

He realized that he did not actually know how long it would take him to get outside of the Shire. He had planned to find an inn or the like to spend the night, but as the sun set on that first day, there wasn't a hole or a building in sight. He was going to have to sleep out of doors. He kept walking for a while longer, despite how much his feet were starting to ache. It was getting cold, and the light was almost gone. So he found a spot off the road, wrapped his blanket around him, and shivered silently.

What had he been thinking? This had to be the stupidest thing he, or anyone, had ever done in the history of the Shire. He was stuck alone at night, in the dark. All sorts of wild animals could get him. There weren't very many vicious wild animals in the Shire, but he was sure that if they were out there, they would find him. He was never going to catch up with Bilbo, Frodo, and Thorin. He was going to get hopelessly lost, and die at the side of the road, and his parents and siblings would never know what had happened to him.

Then, he realized he was still only a day's walk from home. He should be more worried about them finding him then about them not finding him. He spent a sleepless night curled underneath a tree, clutching his blanket close, half expecting a search party to show up at any minute, not even sure if he wanted to be found or not. He wanted very badly to go home. But if he couldn't tough out this much, he surely wasn't meant to have adventures. He deserved to stay in the Shire forever. He unwrapped Bilbo's axe and held it in his lap, a guard against the dangers of the night.

The sun rose. Sam nibbled at some cheese, and stared at the road. One way led home, and the other led onward.

He put away his blanket, and kept walking.

* * *

The next few days were better, so long as he didn't let himself worry about whether he was actually going to ever find them or not. He hadn't realized how big the Shire actually was. But after that first night, he found inns and farmer's houses to sleep in, which he had the coin to pay for thanks to Bilbo's generosity. Shire folk were generally pretty nosy, but he managed to avoid their questions with some nonsense about being on an errand for his father and something to do with gardening. In general, he found that folk in the East Farthing really weren't so different from the West Farthing. He had thought they might be a bit strange, being closer to Buckland and all.

Just when he was getting used to the constant walking, and being on the road, he reached the Brandywine Bridge. It was all of stone, and looked enormous to him, spanning the river in a series of wide arches. Bilbo had told him once that it had not been built by hobbits, but by Men before hobbits ever came to this part of the world. Sam had thought that hobbits had always lived in the Shire. Where else would they live? But it seemed pretty clear to him, looking at the bridge, that it had not been built by his kind. It was too large, too imposing, and too old looking.

Sam took a deep breath. This was it. He hesitated for a moment at the edge of the bridge, and then kept walking. He tried not to look over the side as he crossed. He'd never been over the river before. Everyone in Buckland was odd, right? What if it was the act of crossing the river that made you odd? On the other hand, he was right now leaving the Shire, which made him pretty odd for a hobbit already. He should probably just keep walking.

When he had reached the other side, he stopped and looked back at the Brandywine River and at the Shire, which was now on the other side.

It was time to pick up his pace if he wanted to catch up with them. Hopefully they were no longer traveling by cart.

A few hours later, and he was already starting to despair of finding them. What if they were too far ahead? What if he had completely underestimated how much faster than him they were moving? He was starting to feel a bit panicked. He didn't have a lot of food left. He had never been outside the Shire before. The country around him didn't look very different from the Shire, but for all he knew strange things could start happening at any moment.

A little while later, he saw that a wagon train was coming down the road, going in the direction that he was walking. He had seen such wagons pass through the Shire before, although he, like most hobbits, had tended to keep his distance. There were at least five or six of them approaching him. His first thought was that he should see if they would take him with them for a while. Maybe he could pay. He would move a lot faster that way. He stepped out into the middle of the road, where they couldn't possibly miss him.

Strong arms seized him, yanking him off the road. A stocky figure in a travel-stained blue hood and cloak, too tall to be a hobbit, had pulled him into the underbrush.

"Get down," hissed a voice from beneath the hood. "Keep low, and try to stay out of sight. I don't think they were close enough to see you. What were you thinking, exposing yourself on the road like that? Anyone would think you were trying to get yourself turned into mincemeat, the way you carry on."

Sam panicked for a moment and tried to break free, but his captor was much stronger than him. His pack slid off his shoulder in the struggle. Half a dozen apples tumbled out, along with the towel-wrapped axe, which made an audible thump as it hit the ground.

"What's this, then?" asked the stranger. He extended a large, square hand and pulled back the wrapping from the axe. Then, he ran one of his fingers along a blade, tracing the etchings almost lovingly.

"I know this work," he whispered. He picked it up in one hand, feeling the weight of it. "But it's so small. How did you come by this, boy?"

He let his hood slip down off his head, revealing a lean, hawkish face and a shaggy mane of grey-flecked hair.

"Thorin," Sam gasped, still half in shock. A moment later, he realized that this was not Thorin, but a dwarf he had never seen before in his life. But other than that the beard was a bit longer, and that he was probably not as tall, he and Thorin did share a certain resemblance. Or maybe it was that Sam had just not seen very many dwarves before.

"What did you call me?" the stranger demanded. He grabbed Sam by the collar, and hauled him off his feet. Sam struggled a bit, but the dwarf did not let go no matter how he twisted, so he gave up and hung there limply.

"I'm sorry, sir," Sam gasped. "I thought you were someone I knew."

The dwarf stared at him. That gaze was familiar to Sam as well. It was the look of a predator towards his prey. But Sam had never been afraid that Thorin would hurt him. With this stranger he had no such guarantees. There was a short sword visibly sheathed at his waist, and he was holding Sam's axe in one hand like he knew how to use it, but he probably could just choke the life right out of him with one hand if he wanted too.

"Please," Sam whispered. "I can't breathe."

The dwarf set him back on his feet.

"This Thorin you know, what does he look like? Describe him to me."

"Well," Sam floundered. "He looks like…a bit like you, I suppose."

The dwarf continued to stare at him, as if Sam's thoughts were ripe tomatoes and he wanted to reach inside Sam's head and pluck them out.

"Dark hair?" Sam floundered. "Blue eyes? Tall?" He could add, he realized, that Thorin was the king of some far off dwarvish city, but that would be betraying Mr. Bilbo's trust. And that he refused to do, even at the cost of his own life.

"And how do you know him, exactly?"

"He's friends with Mr. Bilbo, who I work for. Visited him in the Shire." Sam hoped he wasn't saying too much. But this dwarf had acted like he had been trying to help him keep out of danger. "Do _you_ know him?" he dared to venture.

The dwarf snorted. "I suppose you could say that." Sam could not tell from his tone whether this meant that he and Thorin were acquaintances, friends, or enemies.

"So," the dwarf continued. "A halfling boy, out on the Road, no idea how to stay out of trouble, carrying a tiny axe that was clearly made in the forges of Erebor. I've been watching you for hours, and can't make any sense of it. Who on earth are you and what are you doing?"

Along with the mention of Erebor, it was the resemblance to Thorin that made Sam decide to trust this dwarf. It wasn't that their faces were so alike, really. This dwarf didn't have as low a voice, but he still sounded like Thorin somehow. And something about how he moved just seemed so familiar to Sam. His instincts told him that despite this fellow's threats, he meant Sam no real harm.

"I'm actually looking for them," he admitted. "Mr. Bilbo, Frodo, and Thorin. That's why I was so surprised to see you. I wasn't thinking straight, but I thought for a moment maybe I'd found them."

The dwarf stared again. Sam marveled at his own talent at making this fellow lose his powers of speech.

"You think they're near here?" he asked at last, setting the axe back down on the ground amid the spilled apples.

"Don't know how far ahead," Sam said. "Maybe heading for Bree?"

The dwarf rubbed his palms together thoughtfully.

"All right," he said. "I'll make you a deal. Looks like we're headed in the same direction. So I'll travel with you until you find them. Because otherwise, you'll never make it. That much is obvious for anyone with even a single eye in his head."

Sam gulped. He didn't know this person. But he knew he needed help. He'd take his chances, and just do his best to be careful. He wrapped up the axe, and put it back in his pack.

"What do you want in return?" he asked. "I have some money." He started to reach for the pouch.

The dwarf rolled his eyes. "Don't go showing your money to strangers on the road, you little idiot. But no, I don't want your coin. I want a favor from you. I swear it won't be anything you can't do."

Sam shrugged. "All I'm really good at is gardening. You think I can help you?"

"I'm almost certain of it, if the circumstances end up aligning correctly. You don't need to know the details now. It's going to be a certain matter of information."

"Information?" Sam had no idea what he was talking about. "All right, I'll do my best."

"What's your name, little halfling?"

"Samwise Gamgee," said Sam, gingerly offering his hand. "Though folks mostly call me Sam."

The dwarf clasped his hand briefly, and then offered a little bob of a bow.

"Frerin Fundinson, at your service."

* * *

**A/N: So what do we think? Sam: Brave or stupid? I honestly am not sure myself, but he was determined not to get left behind. And as for "Frerin", I don't know if I've been really mysterious or kind of obvious already. In any event, thank you all for reading and for your awesome reviews! I love hearing from you all. I promise next time we'll be back to Thorin, Bilbo, and Frodo, along with another new mystery character. **


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